A Royal Bride
by ramblingonandon
Summary: [SEQUEL of THE UNTOLD CHAPTER set in the same universe] Call it Destiny, call it Fate; because time and distance don't matter for lives entwined. After all, they were to go down in the pages as The Inseparables.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not making any money. I don't own anything recognizable in this story, they belong to their owners. The characters belong to Dumas and bbc.**

 **Author's note: English is not my first language. I have tried my best but there will be errors, for which I apologize beforehand. The inspiration came from the very first episode of the first season where the Queen so explicitly trusts Treville and the Musketeers. And from the Anne/Aramis moments ofcourse.**

* * *

He shifted in his seat, scratched his knee and pulled his chair closer to his desk, then stared at the paper in his hand for the fifteenth time. If he didn't know Cardinal Richelieu as he did he would have speculated if the man was trying to pull a prank on him. Slamming down the report in his right hand he grabbed another one with his left, went through it again and eyed the rest of the messy pile with trepidation. Each and every one was about the highway robberies and everyone one of them courtesy of the bandit the Red Guards had apparently dubbed as the Falcon.

Up until he had got this pile of written reports Treville had been sure that it was just a common passing tale ridding the gossip wave in the various wings of the military. He had heard the name mentioned a number of times in his own regiment and had dismissed it as nothing more than a different version of ghost tales shared around campfires.

Sweat trickled down the nape of his neck and Treville pulled at his collar, wondering why leather had become the unofficial uniform material for the Musketeers. Given the blistering heat that this particular summer from hell was affording them, the Captain of the Musketeers wasn't surprised when he withdrew his right hand from the table and found the report stuck onto his palm. He shook it off with an irritated growl and got to his feet in a huff.

The new Queen of France was on her way to Paris, the King beside himself with excitement to meet his new bride for the first time and the Cardinal had only just decided to inform him of a bandit; that apparently terrorized the entire highway with a skill in precision that had baffled and rendered useless fifteen Red Guards together at a time. Captain Treville ran a hand through his short hair and hoped that the reports on his table were exaggerated lies if not outright jokes.

In the two years since its initiation, the Musketeers regiment had swollen to a comfortable number of forty men in the ranks. But at the moment more than half of the men were deployed at the Palace to secure the area with all the arrangements for the Queen's arrival going on. The Crown Jewels would be at their most vulnerable and so will be the King, Treville had to explain to His Highness a number of times how anyone with questionable intentions could easily sneak in through the crowd that was always coming and going while making arrangements for the ceremony and the ball that would follow. He was relieved when the Cardinal had stepped in and supported his argument, arrogant and scheming he might be but Cardinal Richelieu was the King's trusted advisor and Treville had been glad to have him on his side for the matter.

Now the Captain of the Musketeers mused if His Eminence had only agreed to the extra manpower at the Palace just to see how Treville would devise the plan to spare his limited men from the rotation of Palace duty and send them to investigate this bandit.

"I saved your life is what I did!" the loud fiery growl reached him through the open door of his office.

"Your orders were to catch the other thief," followed a clipped cold retort.

"Maybe he was an old acquaintance eh Porthos?" a third voice cut in.

"Shut up Marsac!" both voices snapped in union.

A beat of silence and then.

"I don't need you to defend me,"

"Like I didn't need you in the grounds?"

"You ungrateful little –"

Treville sighed as the grunts and growls followed and he was out the door, across the balcony and down in the yard by the time blades were drawn. It was a testament to the respect that both men held for him when they stilled at the sight of their Captain approaching them with fury in his gaze and his hands clasped behind his back. Porthos had his fist raised for an obvious knockout punch and Athos's blade was mere inches from his opponent's side. Blue eyes and brown eyes glanced at their superior in union but neither backed down from their stance.

"We caught them heading out of the kitchens having stolen the silverware," Marsac shoved forward one of the three men they had escorted to the garrison, "One of them got away hence the –"

A sharp glare silenced the young man. It wasn't that he wasn't talented, as the third son of a third son Marsac had come from a background both noble and military. While it made him a good soldier it still didn't rid him of the air of superiority, one that Treville was sad to note was in the majority of his men.

"Secure the prisoners," Treville ordered him then turned to the two men still eyeing each other with restrained violence, "You two, in my office."

He didn't wait to see his orders get done and made his way up to his office, while the two men he had recruited at the very start of his regiment followed him like a duo of naughty school children.

Treville took his seat and regarded the men standing as far apart from each other as they could in front of his desk. The two of them had the most experience in the short history of their regiment, in fact they were the ones Treville had depended on to launch his plans into reality. Athos and Porthos were his sword and shield, his right hand and left.

"Explain,"

"Four men working in pairs, each with a man armed with a musket –"

"Not a mission report Athos,"

"We had a disagreement of priorities,"

"He's just mad that I saved his stupid suicidal arse," Porthos glared sideways before he caught his superior's glare, "Captain," he amended hurriedly.

"Nothing so dramatic Captain," Athos steadily ignored the man beside him.

"I cannot have my best men at each other's throat all the while and for the entire garrison to see," Treville glared at them until the nods came and in unison no less.

For a number of months it had been just the three of them, each suffering in their own personal hell and too closed off to care for another; then slowly but gradually Treville had pushed forward to form his regiment and Athos and Porthos were thrown together by necessity. They worked well under his direct command but without it they were two stubborn mules pulling in opposite directions.

He had hoped that they would eventually smooth out each other's edges and things would fall into place. But in the two years he had only seen the distance and silence grow between them. What was worse was the isolation that came as the regiment grew.

Athos was a natural leader; his evenly confident bearing and his excellent swordsmanship were quick to attract respect. Men had turned to him naturally for orders in the field and guidance in the yard; but only to be met with a cool wall of disinterest if it was not a part of his orders. With all that he had to offer, Athos wasn't putting it forward.

On the other hand Porthos was the steady presence anyone would wish at his back. But most of the men were afraid of him. Rumors ebbed and flowed concerning the big man's past no matter how much Treville tried to stomp them out. He knew Porthos could take on a fully armed man and snap his neck like a twig in a matter of seconds with his bare hands; yet the young man chose to ignore the slurs whispered just loud enough to be heard. Like an open flame, he was offering all he had if anyone would look past the dangerous image they perceived.

These two were undeniably the best of his regiment and Treville hated to admit that he was at his wits end about what to do with them.

"I have half a mind to start training Jacques to be recruited in due time and appoint you two as the permanent stable boys," he pointed a finger at them, "You two need to behave, what's the point of you being a Musketeer if you spend most of your career mucking out the stables on disciplinary charges?"

He was met with silence but at least they had the decency to look contrite.

With a shake of his head Treville clumped together the pile of reports on his desk and flattened it with more force than necessary, before folding it all together with a neat crease. He pulled out a fresh piece of parchment and noted down a single sentence 'Four men interested in Royal cutlery,' and decided to let His Eminence try a hand at proper report writing for once.

"We are going to the Palace; you will deliver the prisoners to the Red Guards and I'll have a word with the Cardinal." He said and walked out.

As he had expected neither of them pointed out that they had just finished a nine hour shift in the sweltering heat. They turned as one to follow him, bumping shoulders in the doorway as they tried to exit at the same time.

* * *

Cardinal Richelieu, the first Minister of France could not believe the letter in his hand. With an arched brow he regarded the rather gaunt looking man who had delivered it. They always sent someone different to dissuade suspicion given the healthy correspondence between them; still the Cardinal was not impressed by the progressively worsening condition of each new messenger.

"Come back in the evening, I will have your answer by then," he dismissed the man as he folded the letter in his long fingers.

He would have to summon the Captain, he frowned at the thought, he wouldn't have believed it of the man if he had stated it to his face; yet they only offered a place to those who were worthy enough and they researched each member in great detail. Cardinal Richelieu could admit to himself that he was jealous of their closely guarded resources; he would pay a limb to get into their archives.

His mind snapped back to the present at the sound of his office doors being thrown open. Fate, he mused, worked in mysterious ways.

"Did you not think to share this before the Queen of France took to the highway?" Captain Treville marched in with his two favorites at his heels.

"He was not a problem then," he shrugged.

"This is a year's worth of reports," the Captain slammed the wad of papers onto his desk, "And if I may point out, the gross exaggerations do not serve the purpose."

"My men claim it to have witnessed it all,"

"A man with a pair of wings? Or with the ability to appear in multiple places at once?" The Captain raised a brow.

"There are things beyond the natural in this world," he spoke lightly, "You know that Captain."

He didn't ignore the abrupt stiffness in the man's shoulder nor did he miss the sharp glance cast his way. The Captain of the Musketeers was harboring a secret, a huge secret. And here he had believed him to be an open book, one with a thick enough cover to be used as a blunt weapon but still one in an easy language filled with idealistic theories .

"If your men would wait outside," he pointedly glanced in the direction of the two Musketeers by the door.

He was more amused than glad when the Captain nodded at them and they immediately walked out, closing the doors behind them. He glanced back to see the Captain glaring at him with his arms crossed in front of his chest, if he was a guessing man he would have bet that Treville was trying to read him, to feel him out if he was a Psychic.

He felt a grin stretch taut against his teeth.

"I received a letter, just before you came barging in actually," he elegantly waved the folded piece of paper, "It's from the Brotherhood."

"If you could start making sense quickly Cardinal, I have an urgent matter of a possible threat to our Queen to attend to," the Captain didn't budge from his stance.

"Fine, I'm not a Psychic you can stop trying to search me for clues," he handed Treville the letter and watched closely as the man hurried through it. If he was surprised that the Cardinal knew about Psychics Treville didn't let it show.

Instead, when he finished reading the letter and handed it back with a deep frown.

"You're a Watchman," he stated.

"I am,"

"And you're a member of this Brotherhood?"

"Honored to be so,"

"No thanks," Treville turned away from him, "I'll send out men to scout the highway, I may have to ride out too –"

"Do you have any idea what you're throwing away," the Cardinal couldn't help getting to his feet and come to stand in the Captain's path. He stood up to his entire height and bent forward like a giant weed, "This letter carries the seal of Marcus and he is one the most esteemed member of this brotherhood; a fifth generation direct descendant with the sixth and seventh generation assured. Do you know how rarely he recommends someone? Do you know why? Because he chooses only the strongest, he traces bloodlines so far back that sometimes even the original family name had been lost in history. Marcus asked for you, he tracked you down and found you worthy for some reason, although I don't see what it could be, but he asked for you. And you dismiss it like a peasant's guess of a change in the weather?"

"I have better things to do with my time," Treville shook his head, "like deciphering just how to identify this magical bandit you've pointed me to."

"How did you even know you're a Watchman?" The Cardinal was intrigued, if this man came from a long line like Marcus's involvement implied then he would be fascinated to know how a household full of watchmen lived, did they take up private jobs? Did they learn to identify Psychics from birth or was at after a decade like the others not so highly born? Did they hunt Psychics? Went on shady incursions?

He blinked out of his thoughts to find the Captain looking rather alarmed and leaning back slightly as though to expand the space between them, one that seemed to have rapidly decreased during Cardinal Richelieu's musings.

"It is a personal matter Cardinal one I don't wish to discuss with you," Treville snapped at him and turned to leave when the doors to The Cardinal's office were thrown open again.

This time it was not just the Musketeers, a captain of the Red Guard stood with them as well.

"Has everyone in France lost a hold of basic etiquettes?" The Cardinal asked, "It's the office of the First Minister not a fruit shop in the market!"

"Apologies your Eminence," the captain of the Red Guard bowed low, "I was to inform you, I mean news has come, you need to –"

"The Royal convoy was attacked," Athos cut in.

"When?" Treville asked.

"The messenger comes from the village of La Bol, it's a four days ride," Porthos supplied.

"They can't be too far," the Cardinal pulled out the nearest map in his shelf and unrolled it over his desk, scattering quills and pots of ink alike.

He held the map open as the others gathered around him and traced the route he had marked out for the Royal Convoy bringing the Queen to Paris. He had tried to keep the use of the prominent highway as limited as possible and the course he had drawn out was as winding as it could get, while keeping the royals comfortable. There were many who were against the Queen who came from the Spanish royalty so the Cardinal had tried to avoid as many possible ambushes as he could.

"They would have to be here," he circled the possible location around the black line snaking over the greens and browns of the map.

"I should collect my men,"

"No Pierre, we will have to tread carefully," Treville stopped the man.

Cardinal Richelieu frowned at the Captain's ability to always know the name of a face even if he had only met the person once. The Captain of the Musketeers had no business knowing the names of the Captains' of the Red Guard; the Red Guard was under the Cardinal's command and hence they were his men. He frowned deeply at how childish the thought seemed but he could not very well accept a threat to his source of power.

"You hold no authority over my men _Captain_ ," he reminded the man of his position.

"But I do believe that if we rush into this we might just make matters worse," Treville replied evenly, "A small number of us should scout ahead and assess the situation."

"At the moment we can only hope that Her Highness had not perished in the attack. That means that a direct frontal assault at this enemy would put us at a great disadvantage." Athos nodded.

"We don't even know who they are and how many. And with us charging in blind could push them to harm the Queen," Porthos agreed, "We need to sneak closer and then send a message back for reinforcements."

"And His Highness needs to know of the delay," Treville said.

The Cardinal hated the four pointed looks sent his way.

He clasped his hands behind his back to keep them steady, he wasn't foolish; he could stretch the number of days before the Queen's arrival, she could have taken the scenic route or would even take a break from the constant journey. It wasn't like His Highness would distrust him or demand nitpicked details; but there was a limit. The entire purpose of this union was an alliance with Spain, if the news spread before they got a hold on the situation there could very well be a war.

And there was at least one person he knew who may look upon it as good thing.

"Alright Captain Treville you take charge at this one," he nodded, "Captain Pierre you are to defer to his plan. Keep me informed, both of you. Remember only inform those essential for the job, I shouldn't have to remind you that it's a matter of extreme discretion."

"Do you think this new bandit is involved?" Treville asked.

"Unless the messenger clarifies we cannot assure either way." he replied, "But the reports do indicate his taste for the money of the affluent."

As he watched them leave, Treville already hammering out details of the strategy and the execution, the Cardinal decided to keep a closer eye on the Captain of the Musketeers. He had been a humble soldier in the King's favor just over two years ago and now he was someone His Highness inquired about and sought opinion from. Then there was the matter of him being a watchman, The Cardinal wasn't pleased with another man of his abilities to be in the vicinity of the King and yet the Brotherhood had called upon this man; with Marcus of the all the people summoning him.

He should have realized the threat to his position when Treville had stolen Athos right from under his nose.

"Now you believe me?" the woman asked as she stepped through the door of his private chambers.

She perched onto his desk, twisted a dark curl onto a slim finger and smirked at him.

"I could hardly take your word for it, being who you are."

"Yet you don't seem to mind who I am when it benefits you," she countered.

"Even the deadliest poison could be useful but it does not make it any less fatal."

"Really Armand, you don't need to flatter me," she slid off the table and brushed imaginary dust off of her beautiful dark red gown, "I already help you whenever you ask and sometimes even when you don't."

His eyes narrowed imperceptibly and he clenched his fists at his side.

"You did this?" he hissed, "The attack on the Queen?"

"Look at you all worried for a girl you hate from the core of your being,"

"You can't get in my mind,"

"I don't have to, quite a number of times you've voiced your disgust over this _necessary depravity_ ,"

He gritted his teeth at the sound of her throwing his words back at him. He may be immune to her Psychic abilities but he resolved to be more wary of her other charms as well. He watched Milady's gaze linger at the doors of his office and her hand reached for the pendant resting at the crook of throat. He always found it odd to see her caress the ribbon circled around her neck instead of the stone.

"Did you have anything to do with the Queen's convoy being attacked?"

"I do have my own duties to attend to you know," she turned back to him, "It's not like I spend my days trying to fulfill your wishes."

She glanced at the map sprawled on his desk and tilted her head in that direction.

"I see you have work to do," she said and walked over to the doors of his office. She paused with her hand on the door and rewarded him with a sharp smile, beautiful and treacherous.

"But then again we're friends and I try to keep an eye on what may affect you," she said.

"So you do know something," he was on his feet in an instant but by then she had slipped out the door and dissolved into the bright light of the burning heat that the open windows of the corridor afforded the Palace.

* * *

"The plan is simple enough, but the implementation would be difficult." Treville paced before the three men in the garrison yard, "the timing has to be impeccable. Are you sure you can reach there in three days? "

"We will cut through direct in diagonal to get to the second Red Guard outpost by this time tomorrow," Athos nodded and held up the two envelope's supporting the Cardinal's seal and orders for their provisions courtesy of Pierre, "We'll change horses and again at the fourth outpost the next day and reach our destination on the third."

"In the meantime Pierre would have chosen the men he trusts, it'll be no more than ten," Treville didn't wish to raise alarm and the Cardinal would find an easy excuse for a job requiring that number, "We'll reach the fourth outpost on the third day and wait for you there. You'll have to decide how many of you stay to monitor what you find but one of you must bring back news by evening of the third day or we'll be marching in after you."

Athos, Porthos and Marsac nodded. No one pointed out that all this would go waste if they found the Queen dead. It was a weak hope but Treville would grasp that thread until it he couldn't. He wished fervently that neither of the group would encounter more trouble on the way.

"Now this Falcon, he is supposed to be targeting well-off travelers, " he reminded them, "He may be a myth, but if he is real I've noticed a pattern to in all the reports the Cardinal sent me, you can recognize him by a scar on his face and he wears a hat bearing a Falcon's feather; hence the moniker."

"We'll keep a lookout Captain," Athos assured him.

"Good and remember," Treville said, "All for one."

It was the motto of their young regiment, one that he was drilling into the still fresh minds of his men. "All for one," so that no matter where they came from, no matter what their past held, they were all here for one goal, they shared one purpose and that was all that mattered.

Treville watched the three of them secure their weapons one more time before they mounted their horses and rode out of the garrison gates as fast as the narrow crowded streets of Paris could allow. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and momentarily regarded the bright blue sky that gleamed almost white in the scorching sunlight.

He hoped that the Queen was alive; he hoped that they could bring her safely home and he hoped that whoever this Marcus person was he hadn't managed to trace him to Felipa and Rene. That brought him to the night he had lost them both and Treville closed his eyes, they burned in a completely different way, one nothing to do with the hot weather. Both his worlds seemed to be teetering on a dangerous edge and Treville hated the feeling of losing control.

His musings were disrupted abruptly by the sharp retort of a pistol fired.

In a flash, he turned to the commotion with his own pistol raised. He stared down the barrel to find Serge glowering in the doorway of the storeroom, waving around a smoking pistol.

"Rats in the pantry; rats in the storeroom; seems like these vermin are planning a conquest!"

Treville sighed as he lowered his weapon and resisted the urge to face-palm.

* * *

 **Reviews?**

 **TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

_He was expecting the fist and didn't even try to dodge it as the punch landed on his cheek. He was expecting it and he deserved it. What he hadn't been expecting was the backhanded slap delivered to the girl beside him, she didn't deserve it._

" _We'll get married as soon as we reach another village," he explained with his hands raised as he stood between the girl crumpled on the ground and the fuming man. It's hazy what happened next but there was a flash of metal, a pain in his side and the twigs and stones digging in his back, the flash of metal loomed above him again and the girl screamed..._

 _The pain in his side was nothing, it was the raw shriek of the girl that clawed at him..._

 _He couldn't breathe, he couldn't breathe, there was fire in his side and blood on his fingers and Alain was in his face pushing him back every time. There was blood on Alain's hands too, down his front, soaking his shirt sleeves and the man wouldn't let him through to the carriage she's in..._

" _The child's dead! She lost it!" Alain screamed at him and shoved him back, hard._

 _He landed on the ground and the fire in his side ignited again but he had to get up because it couldn't be true, their child, his child, his one hope of family after all that he had suffered for that word, could not be..._

" _No!" his fingers dug into the earth and the world swayed. Their campfire sputtered in the last throes of its life and the night cooled rapidly as he lurched for the carriage._

" _You will not come near my daughter again!" Alain came out of nowhere and delivered another blow to his face..._

 _The horses threw back their heads in agitation as Alain spurred them forward._

 _He had tied the other horses' carriage to his own..._

 _The starlit sky blinked in and out of focus, the earth rolled and rolled and spun until he wrangled it into submission under his knees then under his feet._

 _He stumbled and ran, tripped over his knee that gave out. Then heaved into a jog again._

 _He was running after them..._

 _He was chasing the slow procession, running alongside it, begging and cursing, but he couldn't breathe and his fingers were bloodied and slippery on the carriage._

 _He couldn't hold on... his slick fingers left glinting crimson trails on the dark carriage...his side burned and he couldn't breathe...his love was slipping away, his unborn child gone...the ground rushed to meet him...the world cracked like a burning house..._

 _His uncle grinned down at him and he's left sitting with his mother in his arms surrounded by a ring of fire..._

From sleep to awake was always abrupt for him. He registered the hot darkness without opening his eyes and recognized the smell of leather and sweat clinging to his face. The only sound that reached him was the rush of flowing water and the chirping of the birds undaunted by the heat of the day in their pursuit of sustenance. There was no unnatural rustle in the windless noon and curve of his blades was a reassuring weight pressed against his thighs.

Aramis blinked and opened his eyes as he dragged his hat off his face down to his chest. He smoothed the falcon's feather stuck in it almost reflexively and shifted slightly when one of his pistols dug rather harshly in his back. Wiping a hand over his face he uncrossed his booted feet and pushed his back further straight against the tree bark. Perched atop a high branch he let one leg dangle off the side and grabbed his musket from the branch above.

A look around reassured him of no unwanted visitors coming his way from the road that was set on the higher ground. The tree he sat in was on the lower ground near the stream, but he was high enough to catch any sight of travelers before they could even think about being watched. He had made many enemies in the short time he had been on the road. There was always those who were out for his blood because he had spilled theirs.

Aramis looked down the road one more time before he pulled out a greasy rag from the pocket of his breaches and began cleaning the weapon in an act both familiar and soothing. It quieted the thrum under his skin that beat from a core of power within him about which he had only come to know two short years ago. As he went through the comfortable motions the voices in his memory faded away.

Sleep was a monster he battled in small intervals. It was a monster with many faces and lurked in the corners of his mind that he would rather not visit, so he instead focused on his current self-appointed mission.

Last night he had come across the ambushed remains of a Royal party near the village of La Bol. There was no one left alive, even the horses were slaughtered and the remains of the scattered bodies had been at least six to seven days old if he discounted for the extra damage wrought by the flock of crows that had alighted upon the scene.

Aramis had spent enough time on the road to pick out the small clues that certain organized groups of bandits left behind. This particular violence spoke of group going by the name of Porters. He hadn't come across their members for a while now, but that didn't mean they would have stopped their rather profitable trade.

Putting back the musket he grabbed the satchel that hung on a branch beside his sword and rummaged around the contents of the bag until he found an apple. Using one of his many boot-knives he cut the fruit in half before gathering his belongings and making his way down the tree.

He dropped down the last couple of feet and found that Risas was nowhere in sight. She was a temperamental one and Aramis knew that she hated being tied down. Still, he mused, it would be a nice surprise if she waited for him once in a while. With a shake of his head he moved to the stream that had swollen from the melting ice peaks. After taking a drink and filling his two water-skins Aramis wiped a wet hand around the back of his neck and heroically refrained from the temptation of dunking his head straight into the water. He had a job to do first.

Finishing off half the apple he wiped his hand on his breeches and let out three short whistles, two shrill and one soft. It was only minutes later that he was rewarded with the sound of hooves and the white mare trotted up to him with an indignant snort.

"One of these days you're going to cost me a lot," he told the horse as it nuzzled down from his shoulder to the hand holding half an apple, "What're you going to do if someone decides to steal you? And you'll be taking the rest of my stuff as well."

Risas disregarded him in search of more treats and when no more were forthcoming she rewarded him by grabbing his leather long coat from the saddle on her back and depositing it on the ground.

"Of course, what was I thinking," Aramis hurried to rescue the only piece of clothing he refused to be parted with but one that was too hot to wear at the moment , "You would just hand over my belongings and trade in your freedom being the cunning lady that you are."

He mounted the horse and patted its neck before they turned to regard the road they had gotten off a few hours earlier. If he was right about the ambush near La Bol, then he would be soon able to come upon the Porters setting camp. For such organized criminals they were rather predictable Aramis decided.

He had come across them a number of times during his journey along the highway that had started over a year ago. The Porters were the best merchants if one was looking for slaves, or just a pound of flesh to satiate a rich man's nightly desires. To keep their merchandize in profitable health they had to lug around heavy metal cages with huge wheels, these left a distinct pattern which Aramis could easily recognize.

He had often relived them of their burdens and he had decided at the sight of the ambush to check if his assistance was again required. Then he would be on his way again.

"It's not like we're running on a tight schedule right?" he asked the mare as they resumed their journey, "What do you think Risas? Will we find her today?"

The mare gave soft snort and a shake of its head. Aramis grinned.

"Laugh all you like but I have a feeling today will be exciting," he said.

He may not find _her_ per say, but there was a promise of action down the road and a feeling of something about to go right. And who knows, Aramis reminded himself, maybe he would stumble upon a clue as to where to look next.

The problem he decided was that the highway wasn't a single road. It was a winding network of packed, interlinked routes and Alain was a master in commandeering the paths. In the few months that Aramis had been with that pedaling healer he had learned quite a lot, not just in terms of medicine but tracking and travelling as well.

" _This is how you repay me?"_

" _We're in love."_

" _Should've left you to die on the roadside,"_

Aramis shook his head and adjusted his hat over his sweating head. That had been exactly what Alain had finally done that night and Aramis couldn't help but wonder if it had been better had the man had not rescued him when he had first left his home; there would have been no child to die that night at least.

Often after the events over a year ago he had thought if his uncle had had the right idea, or his mother for that matter if the man hadn't been lying. Aramis found his fingers tracing the arching scar over his left eyebrow, he didn't know what he would do with the doubt about his mother's involvement, he could not allow himself to trust his uncle's words when his mother hadn't confirmed them. Would she have if she had the chance? He wondered and barely registered when his horse whinnied softly.

Risas shook her head and the bobbing pulled on the reins. He grinned down at his horse.

"Yes, yes, I haven't forgotten about you," he bent over the mare's neck and whispered in its ear, "I know this road; it runs relatively straight, what do you say we stir up our own storm? I don't think this heat is going to lift soon."

He glanced up at the glaringly clear sky and clasped the reins tightly. Risas pawed the dry ground impatiently; then with a grin and a whoop Aramis knocked his heels against the mare's sides and they shot off in a cloud of dust.

* * *

The sun beat down on them in tandem with the erythematic stomp of their galloping horses. It was only the control ingrained in him from birth that allowed him to keep pushing through his massive headache pounding along with the dancing sunlight over the rapidly shifting landscape. His hat stuck to his head as though it had grown on it.

After two days in the saddle with barely a chance to rest Athos felt the third day of riding as a direct challenge to his privileged upbringing. He was supposed to have been 'born in the saddle' as the people say but his cramping leg was screaming otherwise.

He slowed down as the farmlands came into view and the other two Musketeers rounded closer to him.

"That's La Bol," Porthos pulled the hat off his head and wiped the sweat from his face.

"And we didn't see anything that looked like an ambush," Marsac grimaced as he took a mouthful from his water-skin, his face was burned pink under the shade of his hat and Athos wondered if it hurt.

He couldn't really feel his own face and wiped at it just to remind himself it was there, his sleeve came back stained with much less sweat than he had expected.

"It might be on the other side," he said.

He turned his horse and nudged it into a trot. It was sometime before he realized that Porthos had pulled his horse beside him. He would have ignored the man had they not been on duty but as they were out on a mission together he glanced sideways at the large man.

"You don't look so good," Porthos told him.

"I'm fine," he kept the reply short out of habit.

Porthos shrugged and pulled out his own water-skin to take a swallow. Athos ignored the men and pushed his horse ahead a bit; for some reason he felt the bile rising to his throat every time one of his companions took a drink.

His already roiling stomach clenched suddenly as the smell wafted up to them. The air reeked of death and blood; it thickened around them like the swollen flesh it came from and guided them straight to the rotting bodies. The serrated call of the crows sawed through the buzzing air as the black winged creatures flapped and hopped about in a macabre dance like excited children.

Upturned carriages and mangled bodies were all that remained of what once might have been a majestic procession. Athos clenched his teeth shut whether to keep from vomiting or to brace against the invading stench he could not decide. Somewhere behind him he could hear Marsac throwing up and was silently glad of Porthos's living presence beside him.

"Do we look for the Queen?" Porthos asked.

His voice was muffled behind the handkerchief he usually tied around his head but was at the moment stuck firmly over the lower half of his face.

Swiping aside the flies that buzzed indignantly at being disturbed Athos regarded the scene carefully. There was something odd about it and it took him a moment to realize what. His mind tripped over itself to come up with possibilities even as he turned to Porthos with an impassive face.

"The bodies," he told the other Musketeer, "Notice anything?"

He saw the second realization flashed in the big man's eyes. All the bodies, rotting and torn by the crows, were laid straight on their backs with their hands over their chests.

"Somebody was here," Porthos exclaimed.

"Somebody who was alive and took the time to settle the bodies," Athos nodded.

* * *

Aramis moved quietly as he approached the man who stood with a musket resting between his feet and a horn hanging from the thread around his neck. The man only had a chance to widen his eyes in surprise before Aramis pushed him against the tree with a hand on his mouth and silenced him forever with a single swipe of one of his larger boot-knives.

He had found the Porters' camp away from the roadside, beyond a particularly thick curve of trees that lead to an abrupt drop. It was no wonder that they had left most of their heavier loot and the horses on the upper ground with their lookout. It was a clever place to hide out in the scorching dryness of the peaking noon; the lower ground was out of sight and with the gushing river pounding against the rocks nearby.

Aramis counted the men below as he moved silently while his hands flew to load his dead adversary's musket. Eleven armed men was not a big number, he had handled worse he told himself. They were all at ease or lethargic because of the heat, either way he was happy to find them none too alert.

He was not surprised to find the cage set in the middle of the camp. It was filled with women and some quite young girls. His first target would be the guard of the cage, the one who was carrying the key in his belt and leaning against the iron bars as though in conversation with his captors.

Aramis placed his own loaded musket against a tree and placed his enemy's musket against another at a short distance from the previous one. Mindful of the chance that any one of the men down there could come up to check on their companion, he hurried to cover the most distance before he stopped and took aim.

A single shot reverberated even as the man by the cage slumped to the ground and then the Porters' opened fire on Aramis.

* * *

"What was that?" Porthos frowned up the road.

He could have sworn that he had heard a pistol fire even if it reached to him as nothing more than a soft pop in the air. He looked to Athos who had stilled and was staring in the same direction the sound had come from.

"What's wrong?" Marsac walked up to them.

"Pistol fire," Athos stated.

While Marsac frowned at the two of them, Porthos caught Athos's blank stare tossed his way and understood the unspoken plan of action. He mounted his horse just as Athos did and looked to the man beside him just as the other stilled in surprise. Porthos had heard it too. Multiple shots, fired too far away, yet in the range of both their hearing.

"What? Where are we going?" Marsac rushed to get on his horse, "Hey! Just wait a minute there!"

But the firing didn't abate and Porthos was glad when Athos broke his horse into a gallop. They needed to hurry if they wanted to catch the action.

* * *

Aramis ducked behind the trees while metal and fire rained as the enemy ascended in the direction where he had been. He stopped half a distance from where he had left the second musket and shot down the first man to reach the top of the slope. As he had expected, not all the men were coming after him.

So when he reached the second musket and it picked up, he pushed back the fear of the approaching men at his heels and scanned for those who had pressed against the drop to hide from his attack. He only clearly saw one of them and took his shot just as a musket ball buried into the tree next to his head. He looked up to see the man just as he threw away his musket and charged at him with his sword.

Aramis parried with his own sword, ducked a swipe at his face and whirled around whilst drawing the dagger from his belt. He buried its curved blade into the chest of an oncoming man who'd been taking aim. Aramis caught the man's pistol mid-drop, locked his opponent's sword with his own and brought both their tips down before he shot over the man's shoulder at the shooter behind him.

The swordsman looked up at him in surprise and Aramis knocked him out with an elbow to his face. The tip of his sword grazed the unconscious man's neck but he could not bring himself to kill the man now that he posed no threat.

As he sheathed back his dagger and the sword, he counted the men he had downed. With his pistols tucked in his belt he hurried over to where he had left his own musket. He had just grasped the long barrel when a shot echoed from the camp bellow and the loud shrieks followed.

"Come out Falcon or she won't be the last one!" the man shouted.

Aramis neared the tree line bordering the lip of the drop and saw the man trade a loaded pistol for the smoking one in his hand. The five of them had surrounded the cage and there was already a still form of a woman at their feet.

Aramis slid down the incline, his boots rolling easily over loose earth and dry twigs. With the barrel of his musket resting on his shoulder he smirked at the man who stood at the open door of the cage and pointed his pistol at the women huddled in the far corner.

"Destroying the merchandize Giuseppe?" he asked.

"Figured you wouldn't like that," Giuseppe shrugged.

Aramis noticed one of the girls crouching closer to their captor but forced his gaze away. He had to keep the men's attention on himself, not a difficult task he mused and grinned wider.

"I don' think your buyer would appreciate you destroying their property," he said.

The look that the men shared between them cemented the truth in his working theory.

"We don't have a buyer yet,"

"Really?" Aramis stopped a few paces from the small group, "So you're telling me that you're as stupid as you look?"

Two of the men made to lunge at him but stopped short when he brought down his musket and leveled the barrel at them.

"Drop your weapon Falcon, I mean it," Giuseppe turned his pistol on him.

"Alright, alright," Aramis slowly lowered his musket.

He caught the movement just before the men did. The girl charged at Giuseppe as a wide shot went off followed by another as Aramis made sure that Giuseppe wouldn't be a problem again. He ducked and rolled forward under the predictable rain of metal and hopped to his feet with his sword at the ready.

Three men surrounded him and he was distantly aware of another pair of swords clashing somewhere in the din of escaping women. Aramis relished in the song of zinging blades, the lack of talent was a bit dampening yet he enjoyed toying with the three men. A flick of his wrist, a shift in his stance and soon he was the only one left standing.

Smiling like the cat that still had the canary's feathers stuck to its face Aramis sheathed his sword and turned around only to stop abruptly at the sting on his throat.

"Whoa there!" he raised his hands slightly; "I'm on your side."

The girl who was more than a head shorter than him didn't lower the blood tipped sword. Her opponent lay dead beside them and her blue eyes were narrowed dangerously onto Aramis.

"I'm the one who rescued you," he reminded her.

The scowl didn't drop from the round, entirely too young face and the girl advanced on him with a growl. Aramis took a few steps back with his hands still raised in surrender.

"Come on now, I'm Aramis," he tipped his hat slightly; "I'm your friend."

"I have no friends in France," the girl hissed out in Spanish.

"Then allow me to be the first," he replied in the same language.

That gave her a pause, but her stance didn't waver although interest sparked in the blue eyes.

"You know my language?" she inquired in Spanish.

"It was my mother's," he said in the same language and shrugged.

The sharp blue eyes regarded him silently, but then the frown smoothed away and the girl lowered her sword. Aramis could see the fine tremors in the lithe arms but made no move to assist; she was coming down from the high of fear and battle. He needed her calmed down a bit and preferably without a weapon.

The girl glanced at the man she had killed then at the empty cage behind her. Aramis hated the sorrow that brimmed but did not fall from the young eyes at the sight of the dead woman.

"She was your family?" he asked.

The girl shook her head and moved away; the tip of the sword trailed behind her as she stepped away from the cage and looked about as though searching for something. She went from one fallen man to another, her eyes looking for something in particular that wasn't there if Aramis was to judge by the frantically deepening frown.

Not testing if the girl knew French, Aramis decided to use the language she had already used.

"So, can I get the name of the young lady who's obviously well trained in the art of dueling?" he asked.

The girl paused in her search and stood, straightening in the filthy dress that may have been a beautiful pale blue once. She threw back the loose strands of chestnut hair with a toss of her head and it looked to Aramis like she had grown a few inches taller.

"I'm Queen Anne of France sister to His Highness King Philippe of Spain," she announced in clear French with her head held high and chin raised outwards as though a challenge to any who denied the claim.

He sucked in a sharp breath and his eyes rounded. For all his rakish charm, sharp wit and command on three languages, all Aramis could say was, "Well damn."

* * *

 **Your thoughts?**

 **TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

The constant heat and movement left him dizzy. The dusty road had been slipping fast under their horse's thundering pace and still there was nothing in sight. Athos slowed his horse into a trot and regarded the lush trees dotting the lower ground that ran parallel between the road and the stream. The high leafy branches soared up towards the sky and he wondered how many bandits had these innocent green giants sheltered.

The sporadic firing had long gone quite but something in him was unsettled. He regarded Porthos who brought his horse in step with his. The alertness radiating from the other man was bordering on the edge of anxiety. Athos wondered if he too felt this strange pull that dragged him towards where ever he just felt that he had to be.

"What is wrong with you two?" Marsac huffed from his other side, "Where are we running off too? This was not the part of the plan!"

"We didn't find the Queen back there," Athos reminded him.

"So what? We'll ride down the road like maniacs until we do?"

"We're following the pistol fires." Porthos ground out.

"What pistol fires?" Marsac looked from one man to the other.

As though an answer to his question a single shot popped in the air after the long silence. Athos shifted in his saddle, he would have thought he was delirious if not for Porthos. The other Musketeer had jerked in his saddle at sound as well

"That pistol fire," Porthos said.

Athos waited with him for more but none followed. Only the sound of insects and birds hung in the air and Athos didn't know what to make of it.

"Great, of all the Musketeers in our regiment I get to be stuck with the insane ones!" Marsac reined in his horse much sharply then was needed.

Athos hardly paid mind to the men in his regiment unless they were on a mission together; even those short periods of time spent together had done nothing towards elevating this particular Musketeers position in his mind.

"If you want to turn back to go to the Captain and get to the outpost, no one will stop you," he told his fellow Musketeer and looked to Porthos.

Sure he never liked much company and the man's insistent attempts to get him to talk were downright annoying but at times like these, he just knew that he could count on him. And he had a niggling feeling that Porthos at least was on the same level as him, he was sure that the other man could feel the same unnatural clarity that was dawning on Athos, the one he had experienced once in his life two years ago.

So he was not surprised when he urged his horse into a canter and Porthos' beast met his stride for stride.

* * *

"Anything I can help you with?"

"No,"

"Can you tell me what you're looking for?"

"No,"

Aramis glanced up at the tree line above the slope. He had a bad feeling, an almost warning gong of a bell resonating in his head and he had learned the hard way to trust these signs.

"We really should get going," he said.

The girl –Queen he reminded himself – was searching the pockets of the dead men scattered about.

"You are dismissed," she waved one hand in a small gesture while her other searched the pouch on the dead man's belt.

He raised a brow.

"As benevolent as that is of you, I'd rather we leave together,"

"I no longer need your assistance," she said.

Aramis watched her move over to another dead bandit and begin looking through the small satchel attached to his belt. Even though he had heard that the new Queen, married to the King of France by proxy and travelling to her new home, was quite young he had not expected the petite girl who declared the title. And now he was left wondering about the soundness of her mental faculties.

"I'm not so sure of that,"

"Are you questioning your Queen?"

"I'm questioning the sanity of a young girl born in royalty who's scavenging the dead," he blocked her path.

She made to move past him towards Giuseppe's body but Aramis sidestepped and stopped her again.

"Get out of my way," it was clearly a command.

Aramis glanced down to see her grip tighten on the pommel of the sword she was lugging around. She regarded him with a cold blue stare of one whose orders had never been denied. The royal born was in there alright, Aramis thought and smiled, to his delight it softened the glare into confusion. The puzzled look easily brought forth the little girl that she was and Aramis found himself grinning.

With an annoyed toss of her head the Queen moved past him to began searching Giuseppe's pockets.

A minute later, she pulled out her hand and stared at the item. It was a heavy ornate cross studded with tiny jewels and hanging by a simple thick chain. The Queen clasped it tightly and bowed her head as though in a prayer. When she looked up at him there was a real small smile on her face and Aramis was again struck by how young she really was.

"Now that you've found your treasure," he nodded at her, "We need to leave this place,"

He once again scanned the tree line and whistled the combination of notes to call for Risas.

"What?"

"Shush…." He tilted his head to listen for the sound of hooves.

"I am your Queen," she pulled to her full height again, "How dare you address me so,"

"My apologies Your Highness," he flourished into a bow with a smile that twisted the respectful title into anything but.

Whatever the young lady had to say was abruptly drowned out by the sound of a horn blowing. Aramis could have kicked himself for not getting rid of that horn from the dead lookout, as it was he was cursing himself to have let live the man he had struck unconscious.

Hope came to him in the form of a white mare braving the slope to reach him. Aramis guided down his steed and mounting into the saddle held out a hand to the Queen. The young girl disregarded his offer to help and settled before him in one smooth move. She took the reins from him without asking or being asked.

Aramis grinned as he began loading his weapons even as their ride broke into a canter.

"You think there are more of those men?" she asked.

"I'm sure there will be more now," he searched the trees above, "that's what makes these Porters so good at what they do. They have a pact, any of them who hear that horn must come to aid. And this particular road is marked by many of their groups; it's the route to their base."

"You know of this base?"

"Everyone does,"

"Yet the King allows it?"

"I don't think His Highness is much aware of it," Aramis shrugged, "I meant those who matter know where it is –"

The glare she threw over her shoulder left him grinning, it was odd to see someone so much younger than him deliver such a solemn chastising look. His musings were cut short by the rain of metal that herald their enemies.

He was surprised by the skill with which the Queen had them dodging the shots; she maneuvered Risas left and right as though in pursuit of a fleeing snake. The retort of pistols and muskets had them both ducking as the balls of metal cleaved the air and struck the ground where they had been seconds ago.

Timing with the curving path of their gallop, Aramis took aim, steadied his breath and turned with his rapidly shifting angle then let his shot fly. It dropped a man behind them on the ridge. He caught the glint of metal in the tree line ahead and fired another shot over the Queen's head.

He was quickly becoming aware of the fact that there was no escape. With the deafening river on one side and the earth-front on the other there really wasn't much option for cover much less to find a place to make a stand. He whipped his head around at the thundering sound of hooves.

"We're in trouble," he said.

"I would say so," the Queen growled through clenched teeth.

He looked to the front and saw another group of riders coming at them. Aramis nearly lost his seat as the mare reared harshly when the Queen was forced to pull them to a stop. They were surrounded; their horse slipped and skittered on the pebbles lining the powerful river behind them. Neither man nor beast would be able to survive the ferocity of the water.

Aramis caught the reins to calm his agitated mare lest she dropped them both and in the movement he leaned closer towards the Queen.

"Don't tell them who you are," he whispered in Spanish.

Two men hopped down from their mounts and dragged Aramis out of his saddle. One of them locked onto his arms and wrenched them back while another delivered a punch to his gut that left him gasping. He would have bent over if he could and since he couldn't - Aramis smirked.

"I hope for your sake that it wasn't the best that you could do," he found his breath and his footing, "because that was just a sorry excuse of a hit."

He was expecting the next blow to his chest and rolled with it; hurt it did but he had worked hard to make sure that his bones weren't so easily broken. He breathed through his nose and straightened again.

"I bet she can hit harder then you," he nodded towards the Queen and gave her a wink.

It worked to its intended affect and shocked her to a pause in her struggling against the man who held her. There were plenty of sick men in this group who enjoyed breaking a woman's resistance and Aramis wouldn't have any woman go through that if he could help it.

A large, thick limbed man dismounted from his steed and came to stand before Aramis.

"I am Yvon," he said, "Giuseppe was my brother,"

Aramis looked the man up and down, there was no doubt that he was a broader, older vision of the dead man he had left by the cage.

"So the ugliness runs in the family?"

That time the punch to his face had him reeling, despite of the man holding him up. He spat the blood that seeped into his mouth from the corner of his busted lip and frowned at the man.

"As does the frustration it seems," he rolled his eyes, "So who was the ugly and who was the frustrated in your set of parents?"

The next punch reverberated all the way to his ribs and knocked the breath out of him, his knees threatened to give away and he finally felt the hold on his arms loosening as he bent forward.

Leaving him gasping for breath, Yvon sauntered over to the Queen and grasped her by the chin. He tilted her face up and a lewd grin stretched on his face.

"We know of Falcon over there but who are you Mademoiselle?"

"She won't understand you, she only speaks Spanish." Aramis ground out the reply before the Queen could.

"That's good," the beefy man leered, "We're looking for someone who speaks that language. She's supposed to be the wife of our King, do you know her?"

Before the Queen could reply Aramis told her in Spanish to put a lid on her royal bearing if she wished to survive the day. It earned him another blow to the gut but he decided it was worth it if they both survived.

"What did you say to her?" the large man rounded on him.

"I asked if she knew the Queen," he said and decided to help the girl with the answer, "she must have if they were travelling together….."

The Queen nodded immediately and spoke in short bursts of Spanish that worked perfectly for her image of a terrified young girl.

"Well?"

"She says she's the daughter of one of the Queen's lady in waiting. She says the lady your brother killed back there was her mother." He said and tried not to grin at the scolding he had just received for what he had said to the Queen and for leaving his weapons in the saddlebags on their mount.

He glanced around to find that Risas had disappeared just as he had expected, she would keep his supplies and weapons safe. He had enough blades on him to make an easy escape once they got back on the road. He only had to hope that the Porters would take them alive.

"There'll be many who'd pay a large sum for you Falcon," Yvon grinned, "And the girl would fetch a good price as well."

He stroked her cheek with dirt stained fingers and the Queen jerked back with obvious disgust. Yvon laughed.

"She's already giving me a profit," he caught the chain around the girl's neck and brought forth the ornate, jewel studded cross.

The Queen caught on the chain in a flash.

"No," she declared.

"Look at that, she knows a bit of French after all!" Yvon sneered.

It happened in seconds. There was a short scuffle in which the girl bit the hand holding the chain of her beloved pendant, Yvon cursed and lashed out. His howling reaction shoved the already unbalanced Queen back over the loose pebbles and to Aramis's horror she fell into the wild rapids behind her.

Their eyes met for a heartbeat when she came up, already pulled out to the center of the river and then she was gone.

He didn't wait; he didn't think as he rammed his elbow in his captor's side, punched the man who tried to grab him and dove into the churning waters in search of his Queen.

Water colder than he had expected engulfed him, it was in his eyes, burning in his nose, chocking in his throat. He let the current carry him and tried only to break the surface to breathe and search for the girl before the foaming waves blasted into his face again.

A muffled scream had him whipping around until his frantic gaze was rewarded with the sight of thrashing arms. It was an odd feeling to have nothing solid beneath his feet and Aramis tried to ignore how he had no control where he went in the face of the river's power. Instead he tried to maneuver himself so that the torrents pushed him forward towards the girl who was now in his sight.

That's how he noticed the water getting raked by giant rocks up ahead and with a burst of energy he swam towards his target. He reached her just as the water buoyed them straight towards one of the rocks with all the gentleness of an enraged bull. Aramis grabbed the struggling girl and spun mid-stream so that his back impacted with the rock in a bone rattling force and spared the Queen who was nestled safely in his arms.

"My pendant, my pendant," there was a hysterical quality in her raspy voice and wiped-out as he was, Aramis simply grabbed the ornament rushing by. He wrapped it's chain around his hand so that the piece of jewelry wouldn't get washed away.

"There I've got it," he raised his hand before her eyes and held her secure with the other, "I've got you, I've got you. "

She coughed, wiped the strands of dark hair away from her face and nodded even as she rubbed her bloodshot eyes. Aramis braced himself against the rock and pulled up the two of them so that they could breathe easily and out of the range of the rushing water.

"You know, there are better ways to get acquainted with the natural beauty of France." He gasped.

Queen Anne looked up at him, soaked, shivering and with eyes and nose both rimmed red. It took several moments for the watery smile to tease forth.

"I like to immerse myself in the experience," she said, "It's much more educational."

"If the aim was to learn about the life of a freshwater fish then you've thoroughly succeeded Your Highness," he grinned at her.

Pushing his hair out of his face he estimated the distance between the numerous rocks jutting out of the fast flowing river. Planning to use them as anchors to reach the shore, he marked out a path in his mind and hoped that they could cover the distance between the rocks without getting swept away.

It was a slow going, to curl the tug of the water in their favor and hold on to the smooth slippery rocks, sometimes by the mere tips of their fingers. But coughing and gasping, they managed to reach the boulder closer to the shore.

Aramis was getting worried by the shivering that had set in the lithe figure clinging to the rock beside him. He prayed that the Queen's strength would last as his own body trembled with exertion.

"Almost there," he tried to smile encouragingly, "You see that tree bowing forward? You just have to grab onto it alright?"

Exhausted blue eyes regarded the tree he had pointed out and he felt a strange pride surge through him as the Queen pulled together her reserves of strength and managed a determined nod. This was their last chance; there were no more rocks visible in the river beyond and Aramis didn't like the quietness of the swift water current ahead of them, he had a feeling it would be much deeper and it would be vicious.

He held onto the Queen's hand as she pushed away from the rock and found her balance in the rushing water.

"Just like you've done it with the rocks," he called over the noise of the water rushing at them, "It's just like that, a bough instead of a rock and then solid ground."

She nodded just before the water pulled her under and he tugged her up until she broke through the surface again. Heaving in short gasps of air she turned her frantic gaze to his and he surprised himself with the easy smile he offered her. He didn't want to show her how his heart was beating like a trapped bird's frantic wings as he felt his own strength waning.

"I don't think I can," she called out to him, "It's too fast! Too strong!"

"I've got you, alright?" he clutched her hand tighter, "You won't have to ride this current alone, I've got you."

He held on to the rock with one hand and reached as far as he could. Spitting out the water trying to drown him he saw her reach for the bough that was nearly touching the river. Her straining fingers grasped the branch and pulled, only for her to dip again with a handful of leaves and twigs.

Aramis would have cursed had he the breath to spare, but all his strength was focused to anchor the Queen caught in the current and to pull her back to the surface. She broke the surface with a gasp that echoed over the din of the river. He squeezed her hand in what he hoped in reassurance and silently egged her to give it another try.

As she reached out again, he had to wonder how long would his strength last.

And then an arm reached out, a big man clinging to the tree caught the Queen's hand.

Relief as strong as the waves they'd been battling crashed into him; it nearly broke his hold on the rock. He tried frantically to grab onto it by slipping fingers and looked past the water in his eyes as the man pulled the Queen to safety.

Another man rushed forward to help his comrade and yet another hovered near.

Praying for his grip to hold and straining against the push of the water he dragged himself back to the water smoothed boulder. Wiping clear his eyes he looked to the shore and noticed more men coming to join the Queen's on the shore.

Another small group was riding up to them.

Aramis frowned, something was not right, he could feel it. He was somehow not surprised when one of the men fired a shot at him. He ducked instinctually and the metal ball pinged off the rock. The next shot had him dodging to the side, it missed him as well but his hold on the boulder slipped.

Even as the water rushed and pulled him along he tried to catch his anchor in a desperate attempt. But it was a waste of strength; the river was not pleased to have one of its victims being taken away and took it out on the one still in its grasp.

Through the haze of exhaustion and dread Aramis saw Yvon grinning on the shore. Then the earth and the sky tossed and tumbled until the sun was washed out in the river. The last thing that he felt was the familiar power pulse out and around him as the water pulled him out and away.

* * *

 **TBC**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's note: this is a Thank You to the guest reviewers, just wanted to let you know that your words are very much appreciated!**

* * *

This was futile, they were still far off from wherever the battle had raged and as much as it was physically painful for him to admit, Porthos knew they had to stop. He called out to Athos, he was sure that he was heard and he was absolutely sure that he was being ignored. It was the 'Athos rule' as he had come to realize it soon after they were recruited in the Musketeers regiment and this rule stated that either you followed the man or you got out of his way.

Gritting his teeth and itching to grab the reins of the other man's horse, consequences be damned, Porthos decided to give it just one more shot.

"We need to stop Athos!"

A heartbeat and another later Athos slowed his ride. Relived at having been acknowledged and ignoring Marsac's cursing, Porthos pulled up next to Athos.

"We need to stop," he wiped the sweat from his brow, "We need to take a break."

"We can get there," Athos's gaze never left the road ahead of them.

Porthos could relate, there was a knot in his chest that demanded him to just get there, like he was need somewhere, but he could not lose the sight of their natural limitations. Someone had to point them out to Athos.

"The horses need to rest," he said.

His fellow Musketeer looked down at his beast as though he had just realized it was there under him. Porthos would have laughed at the rare true bafflement that flashed on the man's face if he wasn't so worried that Athos would keel over and out of the saddle.

"You look ill," he frowned.

"I'm fine,"

With the shake of his head Porthos slid off his horse and began leading his beast across the road and down the slope. Just the sound of the bubbling stream past the trees was enough to sooth his nerves and he wondered if the long sweltering summer would ever give way to the cooler weather. There had been no rain since the heat had started and the baking weeks had stretched until there wasn't even a breeze to relieve the populace. Despite the reason of their mission, Porthos was glad that they were away from the packed quarters of the garrison and the shade-less grounds of the palace.

He turned at the sound of tumble, saw Athos roll to a stop on the ground and hurried to pull the man away from the path of his slipping horse.

"Don't touch me," Athos shook off his hold.

"Next time I'll let you get trampled,"

"I didn't ask you to save me,"

"Maybe I should just stop then,"

"Maybe you should!"

"Fine!" Porthos stalked past a sneering Marsac and catching his horse's reins led the beast to the stream.

Not for the first time in the two years that he had been with the regiment, Porthos wondered if he had made a mistake. He splashed the cool water on his face and nearly gasped when Flea's parting look came unbidden in his mind. She had warned him that he was chasing an illusion; her words had stung far worse than her punch to his face.

He had hoped to find a place with the Musketeers; he had tried to be a friend to Athos. Although the man never talked, Porthos had been there when they had left La Fère. He may not know the details but he knew of the loss the ex-Comte had suffered. But he was slowly getting tired of the cold disregard. Porthos found himself thinking again about moving on, he had tried to make it work and had come to the nagging conclusion that maybe Flea had been right all along.

He nearly jumped at the loud splashing that broke the natural silence around them. A man out in the stream bubbled up to the previously calm surface like the mysterious whales Porthos had heard stories about in the Court of Miracles.

Shocked to a pause, his cupped hand halfway to his mouth, Porthos watched as the man swum towards the ground until he could stand up in the shallow water. Sputtering and bent over with his hand on his knees the man regarded a dark item floating away. With an audible inhale he dove back the way he had come, caught the object and made his way back into the shallow waters.

Coughing and gasping he trudged up the muddy bank and came to drop on his back right beside Porthos.

"Hello there," the man rasped.

Porthos stared wide eyed as the other grinned, then turned to his side and coughed up a good sized puddle.

It was instincts that urged Porthos to drag the man further away from the stream and to the rub the quaking back as the younger man wheezed and gagged. He looked up as the other two Musketeers approached them and wiped back the strands of dark wavy hair plastered onto the man's young face, his mind not having caught up with his actions.

"Ya gotta breathe," he murmured and helped the man sit up as Athos and Marsac reached the two of them.

"Thank you," the man nodded, "I'm –"

"You're the Falcon," it was Athos who cut in.

"Feeling more like a toad at the moment," the other coughed and pushed to his feet. He swayed dangerously and Porthos found himself reaching out with a steadying grip.

It gave him a chance to study the man before him, the sharp jaw-line defined by a neatly trimmed beard and the well kept mustache gave an air of age from the distance, but up close the person before him was young, much too young for what he had heard about the infamous Falcon.

"The scar on your forehead, the feather in your hat," Athos said, "Your reputation precedes you."

"And yours does not," still wheezing slightly, the lad pushed his hair back and slapped the squelching hat on his head; Porthos distantly realized it was the hat that the boy had swum out for, a hat that still supported a wilted and battered feather of a Falcon.

"Forgive us for not living in the forest and stealing from the rich to give to the poor," Athos replied blandly.

"You mistake me for the old lord of Loxley, Monsieur," the chafed voice replied with an impudent eye roll.

"You're well informed,"

"I live on the road," the Falcon coughed before he bestowed a cheeky grin to Athos, "what's your excuse?" He asked.

"We're the King's guards," Marsac announced from beside Athos.

The bandit tore his gaze away from Athos's blasé one and regarded the other Musketeer. He looked the man up and down, noticed the fleur-de-lis embossed pauldron he had tapped on his shoulder and quirked a brow as though thoroughly unimpressed.

"And you all left your flowing red capes back to cover the palace windows?"

Porthos chuckled but realized his mistake soon when the notorious bandit gave him a delighted smile and a mischievous wink.

"We are the Musketeers," Athos said.

That seemed to shock the younger man into silence. Porthos watched the bandit openly stare at Athos; something odd flashed in his warm brown eyes but before he could ponder over whatever it was that the bandit saw in Athos, Porthos was hit by an epiphany of his own. Beyond the facial hair and the disreputable persona it was the same boy who had recued Treville from Porthos and his men.

The last time they had met, Porthos was the one who was a bandit, his face obscured behind the very bandanna he had now tied on his head. So he wasn't surprised that the boy didn't remember him but the big man remembered, from two years ago and his nose twitched at the thought of the trauma it had went through at the hands of this whelp.

Of course the lad would be surprised Porthos mused as he remembered that first encounter; he had after all coined the name of their regiment. Not that he would have known that the Captain would use the term.

Porthos felt a strange flutter of emotions at the thought of what the lad may have gone through to become this Falcon. He knew from experience the sting of life's whip and couldn't find it in his heart to judge the boy for the image he now portrayed, yes Porthos decided he would at least not judge him instantly.

"I don't think it's the Falcon," Marsac snickered, "It's just a boy playing at being a man."

"Care to challenge me to prove it?"

"I don't need to, what are you? Sixteen years old?" Marsac said.

"I'm eighteen and if you're too scared to take me on…"

"Alright then, I'll show –"

"Let it go Marsac," Porthos surprised himself by the near growl that echoed through his words. It even garnered a raised brow from Athos and even left himself wondering where this protective streak was coming from.

"What? Feeling a kindred spirit here Porthos?" Marsac turned to the big man, "A code among thieves and all that?"

"Marsac…." the warning was clear in Athos's tone.

"Oh the great Athos has taken offence? Is he finally talking to me?" Marsac sneered, "Does it finally mean that you'll actually tell me what the hell you have me chasing after? Because I'm sick of the planning you two have been doing behind my back. As soon as we get to the Captain I'm done with ever going on a mission with you two! Discipline, orders, chain of command that you two apparently know nothing of! And how would you? An arrogant highbred idiot and a no good gutter thief can't possibly understand –"

A loud smack cut of the tirade in a spray of blood.

Porthos stared as Marsac staggered; sputtered under the blood pouring from his nose and teetered sideways almost into Athos, but the man's aversion to touch had him stepping back. It forced Marsac to come to a stop by leaning against a tree until he slowly slumped down against it. His glassy eyes blinked rapidly before he groaned out of consciousness.

Porthos looked back at the young man who was shaking out his fist.

"What?" the younger man caught the rather bewildered look Porthos was giving him, "He's annoying,"

Porthos looked to Athos and despite the blank face he could tell that man was closely examining the bandit. At length he turned quietly and went to his saddlebag and brought back a piece of rope to Porthos. The big man began tying up their prisoner without further instructions.

"Admit it," the lad gave the two of them a brilliant smile, "You wanted to do that too,"

Athos simply shook his head and went to check on the fallen Musketeer but Porthos couldn't help it, he chuckled at the sheer audacity of the lad he was tying up. It tapered off when he felt the younger man's eyes on him when he took the twin daggers sheathed on either thigh of the bandit and then pulled him along quite gently, away from the stream that the lad had emerged from.

The warm brown eyes regarded him with flinty intensity and Porthos couldn't help but feel that he was being judged. He surprised himself when for the first time in his life he actually cared what the other person thought about him.

"Aramis," the lad said finally, "I'm Aramis."

* * *

Athos checked on Marsac while tracking the movements of the other two men from the corner of his eye. This Falcon was not was not what he had excepted and while every thought screamed at him to pack up and get the bandit to the Captain, a tiny persistent curiosity snapped back at these ideas.

He found it troubling; he had spent the two years in the regiment in a haze of alcohol broken by short bursts of purpose in the form of the Captain's orders.

The man had ordered him to survive and Athos had done so, but that was all he had done, survived, but now looking at the younger man sitting beside Porthos like his hands weren't secured behind his back, like he was there because he wanted to, looking exceptionally comfortable in the company of his captors, Athos found his thoughts venturing towards another human being for the first time since _them._

 _Don't think about them_ , he reminded himself and pushed to his feet, the dizziness was a surprise but he managed to steady his steps and came to a stop before the duo. Porthos patted the lad's shoulder and left to check on the horses

Ignoring the pounding in his head Athos sat down on a thick moss covered fallen branch and regarded the drenched bandit. He was oddly pleased that the obvious scrutiny didn't shake the younger man who grinned like the rogue he was and stared right back.

"It's my good looks isn't it?"

"Clearly," Athos replied in a flat tone.

"It's a heavy burden to bear," came an overdramatic sigh.

"You're favoring your right shoulder and your movements are stiff."

"You're feeling dizzy and nauseous and not sweating as much as you should."

"You're injured,"

"You're suffering from the heat,"

They were at an impasse, toe to toe, it was a first time for Athos.

He was used to being listened to by those under him and used to taking orders from his superiors, he was even used to the genuine concern that Porthos offered him even though he told himself that he neither liked it nor wanted it.

This was strange.

"I have questions,"

"And I have answers," the bandit settled back against the tree with a cheeky smile, "I will give them to you but at a price."

Athos found himself glancing towards Porthos who had come to sit a little bit away at their side facing the road above, with his musket settled between his legs. But Athos could tell he was listening in and it was proved true when the big man turned to him just as Athos looked his way.

Despite how much they couldn't stand each other it was scary how Athos could tell that Porthos simply understood just as easily as he understood the other man with a single look.

"Name your price,"

"For every answer I give you I'll tell you the truth," the warm brown eyes sparked with something akin to mischief, "if I can't give you the truth I'll tell you. But for every answer you'll have to drink two mouthfuls of water."

Athos paused, that was not what he had expected.

He wasn't surprised easily; but this demand had hit him out of the blue. His stomach clenched at the thought of putting something in it and he swallowed the sour taste that came to his mouth just at the thought of drinking water. He noticed that Porthos was looking at him and despite the shock on his face a small smile was curling at the corner of his lips before he glanced from one to the other and then turned back to face the road.

Athos silently went to his horse and brought back the water-skin he had been carrying. He took his position and went straight into the matter, curious to see if this Falcon would keep his word and give him the truth.

"Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Yes."

Athos took a mouthful of water and nearly gagged, but he refused to show it and swallowed harshly. He took another mouthful and screwed the water-skin shut with unnecessary viciousness. The cool liquid felt slimy in his stomach that churned at offensive invasion.

He decided to go for a tricky one, planning to get a vague answer and skip the next forced drink. He just hoped the answer wasn't in singular.

"How many have you killed?"

"Seventy-nine men,"

Athos blinked, he wasn't sure what he found more unnerving, the fact that this _boy_ had killed so many men or that he remembered the exact number. From the corner of his eye he could tell by the stiffness in Porthos's stance that he was surprised as well. In their two years of service, between them, they had taken the lives of around fifteen men.

"Do you want details to validate that?" the young man before him asked.

As a reply Athos drank the water he owed. The next question formed on its own in his mind, whether out of curiosity about the information the man had offered or some unspoken morbid challenge, he couldn't decide.

"Who was the first person you killed?"

"A robber,"

Athos drank the water and didn't bother to wipe what spilled down his beard.

"The next?"

"My uncle,"

"You regret it?"

"No,"

It hit him somewhere deep. The younger man before him had killed a relative, just as he had ordered _her_ death. Yet Athos could not bring himself to not care, to not feel the crushing weight of guilt, to not regret like this Falcon had stated. He was envious of the man and more than a little curious to know how he had managed the level of detachment that clearly even Athos had not mastered.

He was pulled out of his surprised silence by the young bandit clearing his throat and pointedly arching a brow. It prompted Athos to drink and he vaguely noted that he actually felt thirsty this time around.

"The attack on the Royal Convoy near La Bol, did you have anything to do with it?"

"No,"

"Do you have any information about it?"

"Yes,"

Athos drank the water to hide the surprised lift at the corner of his mouth. He couldn't remember the last time he had smiled and it was disconcerting that a murderous bandit of all people had wheedled it out of him.

"You! I'll kill you, you brat!" Marsac fumed his way over from behind Athos.

Instantly on his feet, Athos rounded on him.

"Don't," he said.

He didn't know why but he found himself standing in the raging Musketeers path. He glanced back to find that their third Musketeer was standing before the bandit who was on his feet but pinned back by Porthos' hand. The big man was glaring at Marsac.

"I'll kill that little piece of –"

Athos didn't hear the rest of it as he suddenly found himself pressed to the ground and spitting out dirt. His ears rang as the weight rolled off him immediately and he ducked even as he got to his feet. They were under fire.

It was their prisoner who had launched at him. He saw the young man roll to his feet with Athos's own pistol in his hand and shoot down one of the men who were firing at them. The enemy came down the slopes like a swarm of insects and Athos met them with his sword at the ready.

He parried with the first rider that bore down on him, dragged the man out of his saddle and clashed blades with the other one who was already off his horse. They were grossly outnumbered but Athos knew from experience that skilled weighed more than quantity in encounters such as this.

Later, if he lived, he would ask their prisoner how he had escaped his bindings Athos decided as he reveled in the thrill of imminent death. Ironically, it was in these short moments that he found himself alive, pitting his skill against fate, daring it to claim his life, to ride on an enemy blade and end the numb existence he was pulling around for two years now.

He was almost disappointed in his enemy's ability; even with three of them against one they couldn't land a blow where Athos knew he had left himself open.

And then he was too late to see the blade arching towards his neck. He saw it flash in the sunlight and accepted that fate had won when a piercing hiss of metal sliding on metal too close to his ear startled him.

It was Porthos, of course it was Porthos.

The blade of his sword had blocked the one aiming for Athos's throat; but it had left him open to his own opponents.

Athos growled as he was pulled away from his savior and backed against the stream with the now four swordsmen boring down on him. He watched in horror as one of Porthos' adversaries' swipe down his blade too close to the man.

It had Porthos clutching his face and reeling back.

As Porthos fell to one knee, Athos fought like a man possessed; he attacked his foes with chilled violence that had nothing to do with his own life but of the man about to lose his because he had stepped in to save Athos. For the first time in a long time, Athos fought for someone.

He tried desperately to reach out and deflect the blow that was about to kill the big man who was still on the ground, but he knew, deep down he knew he wouldn't be in time. He'd not be on time to save Porthos just as he had been too late to save Thomas.

But then the falling blade clanged with another and their bandit was there. A curved dagger in each hand and looking every bit the dangerous Falcon he was famed to be. His movements precise, sure and fluid, not a single step wasted as he defended the fallen Musketeer.

Just as abruptly as it had started the fight ended, leaving the afternoon littered with dead men. Dropping the last of his opponent, Athos found himself moving straight to the Musketeer who had saved his life. He reached him just as the Falcon helped the man step away from their fallen enemy.

"Not the eye," Porthos groaned.

His hand was still pressed to his face, the entire side of which was soaked in crimson that trickled to stain the collar of his doublet. Athos faltered at the sight as Porthos allowed himself to be led towards the stream.

"You have medical supplies?"

Tearing his gaze away from Porthos, he finally heard the question directed at him when it was repeated. He nodded mutely and went in search of their horses, praying that they had not gotten much far away in their fright.

When he returned, their bandit had already coaxed Porthos to show him the wound and he was examining it carefully in the light of late noon. He took the satchel from Athos without even glancing his way and used a wet rag to clean the blood from Porthos's face.

The Musketeer hissed in pain and their bandit winced.

"I'm sorry my friend," he whispered.

His fingers gentle yet firm examined the man's left eye. The long gash that extended from his forehead down to his cheek still bled and Athos found his hand reaching for the silver decanter he had brought back with the medicine bag.

"I'll take that," it was plucked from his fingers by the Falcon who didn't even regard the offence he had made, "Wasn't there another Musketeer in your merry band?" he asked pointedly.

Athos couldn't believe he had forgotten about Marsac. The two men before him had been in the circle of his awareness all through the fight but he had no idea how the other Musketeer fared. It was with a twinge of guilt that Athos went to look for him.

He found him slumped against the branch Athos had been sitting on. A dark stain had spread around his shoulder that was impaled with a dagger. Feeling ill, Athos stumbled back the way he had come.

"Did you have to use the wine?" Porthos was cursing.

"Would you rather it get infected and you lose the eye after all?"

"We can't have that," there was weariness in Porthos's voice.

"No we can't," the comforting voice turned teasing, "Although an eye patch could look good on you, give you a bit more menacing aura."

Athos was surprised by the obvious camaraderie between the two men as they shared a grin. He cleared his throat and motioned for the medicine bag. When it was handed to him, he went back to Marsac and unsurprisingly found himself at loss about what to do.

He was saved from asking for help when their bandit crouched before the fallen Musketeer and pressed two finger's to the man's neck.

"Aramis?" Porthos packed a lot of questions in that one word.

"He's alive, but the pulse is a bit too fast," the man shrugged, "not surprising though."

"Who were those people?" Porthos asked.

Aramis examined the wounded man closely. He began laying out the strips of linen within an arm's reach, soaking few with the water from one of the water-skins and then placing them on the satchel. He rolled up his sleeves and lightly grasped the hilt of the dagger.

"They're Porters, I thought they might have given up and left me alone. Guess I'm not that forgettable," he shrugged, "I can't believe your medical supplies are only clean linens and not even a sewing kit. Now I need you to hold him down."

He addressed the last part to Athos and wondering when he had started taking orders from this teenager, the man complied.

It was a good think he did because Marsac came to with scream and thrashing when Aramis pulled out the dagger from his shoulder. It wasn't that Athos was unfamiliar with blood, but there was something infinitely brave to clamp down on a gushing wound with bare hands like their bandit did.

 _Their bandit? Why do I keep thinking of him as our bandit?_ Athos never said a word and his face never showed but he found himself stumbling over this strange idea that had sprouted unbeknownst in his mind.

Wild eyed with fear Marsac stared at Aramis as the man pressed down on the wound.

"Let me go," he groaned, "What are you doing?"

"Saving your life," Aramis lifted the pressure to see if the blood had slowed.

"Why?" Marsac gasped as the other man pressed down again.

Athos very much wanted to know the answer too.

"Irritating you may be Marsac," Aramis bestowed the man with an impish grin, "but it's hardly a crime punishable by death," he said and swiftly poured a generous amount of Athos's high quality wine into the open wound.

Marsac gave a choked scream as he tried to get away from the sting, but Aramis held him steady until the man passed out while still cursing the existence of a certain bandit.

"I want it stitched," Aramis muttered to himself, not at all fazed by his patient's unconsciousness. Instead he cleaned the wound thoroughly and wrapped it tightly in clean linen.

After washing his hands in the stream and ordering Porthos to rest a while, Aramis began collecting his various boot-knives from the bodies of their enemies. _That solves the mystery how he got free_ , Athos thought to himself, a bit disgruntled at not having realized it since apparently the man had quite literally sat before him cutting his binding during their questioning.

"Why were the Porters after you?" Athos asked.

"Because they know I'm coming for them," the man picked up a discarded musket and began examining it.

He looked to Athos and shrugged at the brow arched in question. Tucking the musket under his arm he picked up a pouch of ammunition while he dug into his pocket with his other hand. He pulled out a cross bearing pendant from his pocket and showed it Athos.

"They took the Queen,"

Relief he hadn't been expecting washed over Athos as Porthos audibly exhaled and came to stand beside him. They weren't too late to save their Queen and at least for now there was a chance to keep it that caught up were they in their fortunate break that neither of the two noticed that the Falcon had loaded his musket, they didn't catch on until the long barrel was hovering inches from Athos's forehead, right between his eyes.

* * *

 **TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

Athos's eyes widened imperceptibly but the barrel of the musket held steady.

"Aramis?" Porthos frowned, "What're you doing?"

"Saving your enemies a bullet," he looked down the muzzle into the cool blue eyes as he ignited the flare of the weapon in his hand.

"It's what you want isn't it Athos? You leave yourself open for an attack hoping that some enemy would end your life." he settled the musket against his shoulder, "Let me oblige then."

"Aramis don't," Porthos warned as he clenched the bloodstained cloth tightly in his fist.

Aramis smirked and steadied his musket as the blue eyes met flinty brown over the barrel of the weapon, none of the two ready to back down. Athos's jaw clenched under the calm façade but he made no move to stop or escape the metal ball about to be blasted through his head.

And then Aramis pressed the trigger.

Athos dodged sideways just as Porthos shoved the gun barrel upwards and for a second the only sound around them was the gurgling of the stream and their own harsh breathing.

Aramis saw the second it dawned on the other two that it had been a quite snick that had sounded instead of the bark of a musket. He pulled back the weapon and tossed a musket ball to Athos. Stunned though he was the older man still caught it.

"You tried to dodge it Athos," he raised an arched brow, "You may think you don't want to live but you're not ready to die yet, accept it before it costs you a friend's life."

He threw away the weapon and suddenly felt incredibly tired. He ached all over, he was pretty sure his entire back would be painted in bruises and he still had a fight ahead of him.

He felt drained of the energy that usually thrummed under his skin. He had a feeling that he had used up all of _that_ specific power in somehow surviving the river when by all means he should have drowned.

His sore throat reminded him that he had drowned part way but that seemed to have instinctually kicked into action the invisible, nameless power he had felt when he had encountered the Comtesse in the clearing all that time ago.

He would never have imagined his day to turn out like this, even if he had come across the rotting remains of the massacre in the night and decided to look for the Porters. He had dived into the river with the Queen of France of all people then he had flopped out of it to meet none other than Olivier d'Athos. He gave a soft laugh at the incredulity of it all.

"I'd take his no sense of humor over your twisted one any day," Porthos shook his head slowly.

"Where's your sense of adventure in that Porthos?" it was Athos who spoke up.

Aramis could tell that by the widening eyes and the silent gape that Porthos wasn't used to his fellow Musketeer's addressing him so. He wouldn't be surprised if Athos hadn't spoken this long a sentence ever since Thomas's death at the hands of Athos's wife.

Although the man didn't recognize him, being as he was so single mindedly occupied by the love of his life at the time they may have passed each other by, still it was Aramis who had picked up the moping teenager who was missing his brother. He had endured Thomas's sulks and he had dragged his friend out of it each time whether the boy had been up to it or not. It seemed like a lifetime ago when he had been that boy who was friends with the young lord.

Aramis took of his hat and drew a shaky hand through his damp hair, he was still caught in the rush of a life or death situation but experience had taught him of the imminent crash that heading his way. Soon, but not yet, he decided as he clenched his fist and steadied his quivering muscles.

"You know where the Porters took the Queen?" Athos asked him.

"I can hazard a guess," Aramis gave them pointed look.

The expectant looks sent his way made him realize that the Musketeers before him didn't know about the Porters' base camp. Since he had witnessed the various comings and goings of the Red Guards from the area from where these Porters' operated, he was surprised that this particular regiment was blank on the matter.

"What're you waiting for an invitation?" Porthos grinned and threw away the piece of linen that he had pressed over the cut on his face, "Tell us where these Porters took her."

Despite his desire to trust these men, Aramis could not forget the obvious gulf between soldiers and criminals. He had already trusted these men too much and if they didn't know where the Porters may have taken the Queen then he was not keen on forgoing his opportunity to lose them on the road.

But he could not deny that they seemed true in their desire to rescue the Queen.

"I tell you where to go and then what?" He asked.

"We send you to the Captain," Athos spoke up at the same time as Porthos said, "We go with you."

"He's still an outlaw," Athos pointed out.

"He just saved my life," Porthos growled.

"And mine as well, but he had confessed to killing seventy nine men,"

"Eighty- five," the third voice cut in with a soft correction but words faltered under the attention that snapped towards him, "I mean its eighty five now – Not that that it matters. Just - Never mind."

Aramis suddenly found himself a target of two very annoyed gazes. It almost left him feeling a bit chastised. He shrugged and waved a hand between the two men.

"By all means continue," he pulled on his best fake innocent look. " _He_ is the one who knows where to go. So _he_ will be taking his leave."

"Ya can't go after these men all on your own! That's suicide!" Porthos actually glared at him.

Aramis found himself baffled about what to do with this sudden, uncalled for concern about his life. He glanced at Athos and the older man gave a one armed shrug as though to say that he was familiar with this particular behavior but was still at loss himself.

This was just who Porthos was, a good man who cared. It was for that reason only that Aramis relented.

"If we do this, you'll let me go after it's all over." He said.

Athos shook his head even though it seemed Porthos was considering the offer. Before the big man could so much as frown Athos spoke up.

"Think about the trust the Captain has in you Porthos," he said, "You can't betray Treville like this."

Aramis took a sudden step back and away from the two men even as Porthos cringed at the thought of betraying their Captain's trust; _Betraying the unspoken faith that the soldier had in them just like I had done that night,_ Aramis's thought as he shook his head and backtracked until he hit a youngest of the three felt his stomach drop in some unfathomable pit at the memory of the look in those eyes when he had shot down his Uncle. In his mind Remi had deserved what he got but he had seen the disappointment in Treville's gaze when he had fled into the stormy night.

He could not face that man again; it was already too hard to face Athos and not feel the demons of his memory stir. The only thing that made it bearable was the fact that Athos did not recognize him, but Aramis could not meet Treville, he would not let his past – one that was dead and buried beside his mother – to unravel, he will not get tangled in the unanswered questions that he had finally learned to push aside in his mind, he could not face the man's disappointment at the sight of the monster he had become.

" 'Mis? What're you –" Porthos was talking, "I think he's going to throw up."

The warmth of a hand on his arm pulled him out of the daze. He looked into the dark eyes that were soft with concern and jerked away. He turned his back on the frown that appeared on Porthos face and swiftly scanned for the horses that the Porters had used in their attack.

The steeds were all huddled together and Aramis would take one of them, he didn't care who they belonged to.

"You can't go off on your own!" Porthos grabbed his arm.

"Watch me," he tossed over his shoulder and swung into the saddle of the first horse that was near enough.

He turned the horse around towards the slope and nearly threw himself off its back when he reined the steed back harshly in his surprise. Athos stood too close in front of the animal, looking for all the world like it was the most normal thing to pop up in front of an about to be galloping horse. He calmly regarded the rather frazzled rider.

"You still have the death wish?" Aramis had to ask.

"Pot, kettle, hello," a hint of curl at the corner of his mouth flashed in the sunlight.

Athos did not budge in front of the horse. Instead he focused on the young man sitting in the saddle.

"I have an offer to make," he said, "We ride out together into this rescue, the three of us. After the rescue you and I have a duel, if you win you're free to go and we won't follow you, but if I win, we'll take you as our prisoner."

Aramis considered it for a moment then gave a reluctant nod.

"Once he comes around, you'll tell Marsac the way to this base camp and he will ride back to the Captain. Reinforcements might be delayed but they'll get there," Athos settled the matter.

Aramis prayed that he could save the Queen and defeat Athos before the Captain of the Musketeers made an appearance.

* * *

Treville was not a happy Captain; he had awaited a message at the fourth outpost from his men who had scouted ahead but no word had arrived. When the shadows had begun stretching, Treville ordered Pierre to get his men ready and they had ridden out as the evening grew old.

That was another thing that irked him. These were not his men, no matter what the Cardinal's orders The Red Guard were not under his command. He wasn't comfortable with having them at his back especially when the budding friendly rivalry between the two regiments had turned into ugly resentment much faster than he had anticipated.

Treville was quite sure that if any other captain except Pierre had been assigned to him, the Captain of the Musketeers would have found himself in an 'accidental' incident by now.

"What the hell died out here?" Pierre slowed his horse in its path.

Treville frowned and pressed his nose in the crook of his neck as they rode on with subdued trepidation and finally came upon the decaying remains of the Royal Convoy.

Pierre ordered his men to search the remains for anything that would identify that the Queen was among the dead. But Treville just knew it would not be so. He walked among the remains once and when he didn't find his men, he was absolutely sure that the Queen was alive; at least she had been alive when his men had come upon this scene.

He knew they would have gone in search of her but that was the limit of his certainty. Because they were near a crossroads and Treville wondered which of the three roads before him had his Musketeers taken. He looked to velvety darkness rolling over the gray of the evening sky and knew he would have to choose a path quickly.

But would he choose one and find that it's not the right one, or it could be the right one and he'd simply come upon the sight of his men and the Queen lying dead just a bit away from the scene of the massacre? He walked away from the gruesome scene that the Red Guards were searching with the light of small fires caught on sticks. He was still battling the nausea rising at his thoughts, augmented with the stench that curled around them, when he heard the clip-clop of an approaching rider.

With a hand on the pommel of his sword he waited until the figure drew closer. In the dimming light he recognized the outline of the leather doublet and the hats that his men had started favoring. He darted forward when the man in the saddle began listing to his side and helped him off the horse.

"Marsac?"

"Captain?"

Treville couldn't tell who was more surprised. He motioned for some of the Red Guards to bring some light and found that his Musketeer was injured, pale and minutes from unconsciousness. Fear gnawed at his nerves and he silently prayed that this was not the last of his men.

"Report," Treville pulled out his commanding voice even as he gently guided the man to the ground.

"The Queen," Marsac groaned, "the Queen is alive. Athos and Porthos have gone to rescue at the Porters' base camp."

"We know of that place," Pierre spoke up before he scratched the back of his head and gave a sheepish smile, "I mean, we had our orders once, had to go there for negotiations..."

"Negotiating with a group of criminals?" Treville shook his head.

"Aramis said he knew where they are based," Marsac decided to add in.

Treville looked at the man nearly drooping in his arms. _Had he said Aramis?_ He frowned and shook the Musketeer until the eyes opened with a bleary glare. It dissolved into a frown and Marsac clutched his wounded shoulder tightly.

"Who is Aramis," Treville asked quietly.

"He bandaged me up," Marsac told him, "Kinda saved my life I think. I didn't like him in the beginning you know."

"Where did you meet him? Marsac who is Aramis?"

"Aramis is The Falcon," the Musketeer replied as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Treville ignored the sharp gasp from Pierre by his side. He looked down unseeingly at the man in his arms who had finally passed out. Surely there were many people in France named Aramis, it could be anyone, it obviously couldn't be Rene; not his Rene, he couldn't be this notoriously dangerous criminal could he?

* * *

Athos and Porthos stared as Aramis fawned over the white mare that had come out from the trees where the road curved at the sound of the man's whistling. They watched the bandit grin like a child and assured the horse that it had done fine in guarding his possessions; Athos was feeling rather uncomfortable by the loving delight with which Aramis examined his musket and pistols.

"If their base camp is a few hours away by walking, why did they stop here?" he asked as he slid off his own horse.

They had decided to cover the rest of the distance on foot since there was a high chance of enemy lookouts and the horses would give them away long before they'd have a fighting chance. That part of the plan Athos understood, what bothered him was the sheer amount of weapons Aramis had decided to bring along; picked off from their dead enemies by the stream. He had stuffed them in his belt like a child would stuff candies and held the rest close to himself like they were plush toys.

"The cages," Aramis replied unperturbed by the troubling visage he created, "They're too heavy for a long consistent haul. The horses need a break; I'm surprised they made it this far in such a short amount of time."

"They might have only stopped for a breather," Porthos shrugged.

"Could be," Aramis nodded, "This road remains fairly empty save for the Porters own groups. They must have thought it was safe enough."

"The entire road is dominated by these Porters?" Athos was skeptical.

"Some people brave it in the daylight, but otherwise it's theirs."

"Why had the Red Guard not stopped this?" Porthos asked.

"They can give you a lot of reasons for that one," Aramis said, "But I can tell you it's all about profitable business."

The three of them tied their horses to the trees, all except Aramis's mare and began walking under the cover of the canopy. For over an hour there was nothing but a barely audible sound of the progress of the three men as the sun began its decent and the evening began to wane.

That was until Athos caught the shift in the leafy shadows of a tree ahead.

He motioned for his men to stay quiet and signaled them towards the man sitting with a musket up in a tree that was many feet away. He frowned when Aramis divested himself of the weapons he was hauling and began climbing the nearest tree. Athos looked to Porthos who simply shrugged.

"A shot fired would give away our arrival." Athos whispered.

"He's gonna use a boot-knife." Porthos didn't look away from where he could see Aramis balancing his stance on a branch with a small blade in his hand.

"He's too far away," Athos shook his head just as a slick in the air followed by a thud announced the dead look out. Moments later Aramis was dropping down beside them and gather his weapons like a demented squirrel. He looked up with a smug grin and the older man found himself rolling his eyes.

Athos hated to admit it even to himself but this young man was fast barreling through the walls that he had erected around himself, the walls that Porthos had patiently worked to chip away for enough space to reach the lost man beyond.

Athos looked to the larger man grinning at something Aramis had whispered as he wiped the blood off his knife on the dead lookout's shirt. He didn't know when and he didn't know how but he found himself actually giving a damn about the safety of these two men.

With a shake of his head Athos herded his men forward. The gray sky was fast giving way to the darkness and he wished to make most of the receding twilight.

"Aramis thinks that there is someone other than Porters behind this attack," Porthos whispered.

"It has to be the buyer," the younger one shrugged, "They had to have a buyer who specifically asked for the people of this convoy. The Porters wouldn't risk such an ambush otherwise."

Athos nodded. It made sense; such a well established criminal group wouldn't blatantly attract attention to themselves, not without a ridiculously large reward or a truly dangerous threat. It also meant that there was someone behind this entire mess, someone who was targeting the Queen. Athos could think of only one reason for that, because no matter what the personal grudges could be behind this attack it all boiled down to war.

So it was with renewed focus that they swiftly and methodologically got rid of the many lookouts and came to a stop at the lip of clearing. They area was brightly lit with multiple campfires now that night had fallen. A large number of men loitered about after the long hot day but not a single one of them was unarmed. Four high watchtowers made of wood allowed the view of the road from over the forest, to the side of the clearing were the stables where rows of empty cages were parked and beyond all this was what once could have been a castle but was now debris of huge stones laid out in some semblance of structure.

"Don't get fooled by the look of it," Aramis warned them in a whisper. "It's a sound fort, only the upper storey is in ruins."

"Just like its occupants then," Athos nodded with a wry smile.

He once again scanned the area before them and formed a plan of attack. He would have to leave the reinforcements out on a hope that they will arrive on time yet they'd have to think as if there was no help coming. Remembering how Marsac had looked in his saddle, Athos felt his expectations for help lowering further.

"Porthos and I will attack from the front," he said with a nod towards the enemy weapons Aramis had dumped at their feet, "We'll draw the fire and like good little criminals they'll go to secure the Queen." He pointed at Aramis, "You will sneak in from behind the stables and follow them to where they have kept Her Highness and lead her to safety."

Two grim faces nodded in unison. They were accepting his authority and his command; Athos only hoped that he could guide them out of this alive.

"Remember," he said, "All for one."

"And one for all." Aramis added.

The two Musketeers looked at him in surprise. They were here for one purpose, one reason for which they were united but with Aramis's words that purpose seamlessly shifted away from the mission and towards the men themselves.

They will fight for the man beside them; the mission came second, watching each other's back was first.

Athos glanced at Porthos and then they both looked to Aramis. Something stretched, reached out, caught and was caught, the world shifted a bit and then it settled to a sense of home.

* * *

' _All for One and One for All'...'All for One and One for All'...'All for One and One for All'..._

She rubbed her temple and pushed through the doors of the Cardinal's bed chambers. The shift in power that her Knot had felt had reverberated all the way down to her like the ringing of a church bell right next to her head.

This tethering had echoed through probably every knot in the world. It had announced itself loud and clear in the damned mantra that kept pulsing in her head.

' _All for One and One for All'...'All for One and One for All'...'All for One and One for All'..._

She pressed her fingers to the side of her forehead and felt for the slim figure under the satin covers. She had to confirm it; she had to be sure and then tell her Knot that she was right, after all this time there will be proof and those that had taunted her for her supposed 'mismanagement' concerning her husband the Comte will finally shut up.

"What the –! What are you doing here? Are you out of your mind?!" Cardinal Richelieu gasped awake and shoved her back as he hurried to his feet, "What is it? Is the King alright? The Queen she isn't dead is she?"

"The tapestry," she said, "Where's the tapestry?"

"If this is you drunk, I swear to God I will –"

"The tapestry Armand!" she glared at him, "The one you took from that Psychic in Arras. Where is it?"

"Why do you need it?"

"You may be a Watchman who's in a deal with my Knot but I have a raging headache and no patience to watch you blathering in your silk pajamas. So get me that tapestry or I will gut you where you stand."

Cardinal Richelieu didn't take kindly to be threatened, he took it even less kindly if his sleep was disturbed but he could appreciate the thought of getting done whatever it was that the woman wanted and then get back to his sleep.

So he went to his knees and pulled out the rolled up tapestry from under his bed. He had taken it off a Psychic in Arras and in return had spared the life of that woman even when she had cursed him openly in the street. It was a remarkable piece actually; it held the details of the oldest Psychic clans and whenever a new Knot was formed amongst those marked in the tapestry, it appeared on its woolen surface.

"When first I came here, you said that a Knot had appeared on your tapestry all on its own. That there were no Tethers but just a Knot." She reminded him.

"Yes," he unrolled the tapestry and traced the almost web patterned dark lines with the light from his bedside candle, "See, here it is, not linked to any other Psychic – wait!"

Milady smiled to herself as the Cardinal looked closely to where two new marks had appeared on the tapestry, below this self-appearing Knot and tethered to it. He traced a finger over the link and looked up sharply at the woman who had a smug grin stretching over her face.

"They weren't there before, just like the Knot wasn't there to begin with," he rolled the tapestry in contemplative silence then stood up with a frown, "All the rest were formed when various Psychics seemed to tie in, but it's almost like this Knot is forming these two Tethers, since it was the Knot that appeared first. It's fascinating don't you think?"

He didn't wait for an answer but hurried to his desk and began scribbling.

"The Brotherhood must know of this..." He muttered.

But Milady had gotten what she had come from and she slipped out of the room with a self-satisfied smirk in place. She had told them all that she had encountered a born Knot and they had called her a liar, even when they had felt the presence of this Knot they had denied it. Let's see them ignore it now, it may have taken two years but this Knot had finally tethered.

' _All for One and One for All'..._

It whispered in her mind; quite now but still aching like a fresh wound.

' _All for One and One for All'...'All for One and One for All'...'All for One and One for All'... **.**_

* * *

 **TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

Porthos was having the time of his life, his booming laugh echoed in the darkness despite the din of gunfire. The three of them had loaded their abundant weapons and then had spread out in three directions, Aramis had disappeared to take his position in the trees by the stables while he and Athos formed a rough arch in the trees and began shooting down the nearest enemy men.

He had always been an active child, it was a requirement for anyone living in the streets of Paris, so he didn't mind all the running he and Athos were doing and having so much firepower at his disposal just made him grin wider. He was starting to appreciate Aramis's pleasure in using the muskets and pistols.

"Shall we?" Athos nodded towards the group of men advancing towards them. He had his own sword out and blood already stained the steel.

Throwing away the last of his now empty pistols Porthos drew his sword and charged at the oncoming men; mowing down a few by his strength alone. Never having been formally trained with a sword he had developed a style of his own, so it was that he relished in the surprised expressions of his opponents when they would get a fist to their face instead of the blade or a knee to the gut instead of a sword.

They moved side by side and revolving around each others' backs and soon an uncanny tandem developed between the two Musketeers, though Porthos wasn't going to question it. But suddenly he was sharply aware of his brother in arms even as he focused on the men intent on ending his life. He knew instinctually where Athos was just as it seemed that the other man was aware of the moves Porthos would make as though they had rehearsed the entire thing.

"I think our luck is finally starting to shine," Porthos grinned as he turned to Athos.

The other dropped the last man who had dared to make a stand while the rest of the men rushed back to the clearing. Athos wiped his sword with a leaf and looked out from where the two Musketeers stood at the edge of the forest.

"I'm glad something is," Athos said.

Porthos followed his gaze and saw the men in the clearing hurriedly dousing the campfires. In a matter of minutes the entire scene before them took on a dark shroud, paled only by the half moon hanging in the clear dark blue sky. He turned to Athos; he couldn't see the man's features but he saw the assured nod.

"All for one,"

"And one for all,"

* * *

He slipped in through the window just when he heard the first shot fired and saw the men who were playing cards inside dash off with their weapons in hand, toppling the rickety stools as they went. Swift and alert, his pistol at the ready, Aramis moved quietly like a sliding shadow through the brightly lit corridor.

Up ahead he could hear the footsteps moving away, but then some of them shuffled to a stop. He paused where the passage winded into a narrow bend and pressed against the wall, he peered down the hallway where he spotted four men standing guard outside a door.

The one with the blow-horn around his neck would have to be the first he decided, but he could not risk the sound of gunfire from any of them. It would have every man outside descending onto them.

Aramis settled his ammunition on the floor and regarded the boot-knives he had pulled out, two in each hand. He would have to be faster than the time it took these men to ignite the wicks of their loaded muskets and he would have to anticipate which way each of them would move. He knew that a large part of aiming for a moving object was to read where it was headed but he had never had to aim for four such objects together.

 _Not together; simultaneously just much faster_ , he assured himself like the marksman that he was.

With a calming breath he stepped out of the bend even as he let fly the first of his blades, the second found its mark before the first man hit the ground and the third followed in a blink. In six fast steps Aramis reached the fourth guard and took care of him with a swipe of the blade in his hand while he caught the man's weapon in his other and snuffed out the wick with a pinch.

Taking the keys from the dead guard he hurriedly opened the thick lock, lifted the bolt and pushed open the door. He stepped inside only to have his foot swiped from under him and before he could grasp the wall for balance something cold and hard slammed into the side of his face.

He was still reeling a bit when a loud squeak echoed in the room.

"Aramis!"

And then someone head-butted him in the lower chest.

With a hand pressed firmly against the wall, Aramis shook his head to clear the bright spots dancing in his vision and wheezed slightly to get his already abused ribs to let him breathe easy. It took longer than he would have liked but when his wits finally returned he realized that the pressure low on his sternum was still there.

He looked down to see a dark haired head bent forward and pressed against him while a small white hand clutched at his shirt.

"I thought you were dead, they said you were dead," his Queen shook her head, effectively drilling it just a bit more into him, "I thought you were dead."

Feeling entirely at loss about what to do in this rather obvious act of impropriety Aramis awkwardly patted her head with his free hand; only this girl could manage to throw him off foot like this he mused. His eyes caught the metal bowl that she clutched in her other hand and he felt a laugh bubbling past his lips.

"I'm glad they didn't spare you a fork Your Highness."

She stepped away from him at the sound of her title, spoken though it was in a teasing tone that was rapidly becoming familiar. Her grip tightened over her makeshift weapon and she looked up at him with that rare tiny smile.

"I would have escaped by now if they had," she said.

But that singular genuine smile didn't hide from Aramis the bruise on the side of her face, the swollen corner of the lower lip and the dried rusty flakes dotting the skin below her nose. It sparked a rage in him such as he had never experienced before, the desire to tear off limbs with his bare hands of the one responsible churned like a gathering tornado in him.

"Who did this?" he asked.

She touched her face as though fresh realizing that the remnants of the violence were still there. She gave a soft wince and pulled her fingers away.

"Yvon," she said, "His man who pulled me out of the river – I – I kicked him in a rather delicate area," she composed herself even as a blush streaked her cheeks, "I will not be subdued without a fight."

Although she was hardly past her mid teens, far from maturity; was beaten and ragged in enemy territory, far from her crown and throne, but to Aramis no one had ever looked more regal.

He dropped down to a knee and bowed his head.

"As long as I draw a breath My Queen will not be subdued," he promised quietly.

There was no teasing there but deep respect. He meant every word; he could have his spies patrol the palace gardens once he got her there safely, he had enough money stored away to buy off the entire palace staff if he wanted to. She would be protected, never again will she be endangered and if ever there'll be a threat he would lay down his life to get her back to safety.

"You are full of surprises Monsieur Aramis," she said.

"You haven't even scratched the surface Your Highness," he smirked as he got his feet and presented an exaggerated bow.

The two of them left the room and as Aramis collected his weapons the Queen regarded the corridor; armed with one of the dead guard's sword she was halfway down the way opposite from where he had come from by the time the young man looked up.

Darting forward he caught up with her.

"Our exit is the other way," he said.

"They caught my ladies in waiting," she murmured back as she frowned at the chipped stone walls, "I think they took them this way."

"I'll come back for them once you're safe."

"And what if they find me gone and slaughter them in rage?"

A flicker of movement ahead had him pulling her back and against the wall. He waited until he was sure that the man ahead of them was out of earshot then glared down at the obstinate girl who glared right back at him.

"We do this my way," he growled, "I tell you to run you ask which way."

"Of course Your Highness," she smirked back at him.

* * *

The gray darkness was like a cloying blanket, pasted to his skin by his own sweat. Athos could see the shreds of smoke from the recently doused camp fires and the moving blobs of solid darkness. What he could not tell was how many men were clumped together in a shifting spot of black and feared that he may misjudge the number of opponents in a single encounter.

"I think they're trying to surround us," Porthos spoke from his side.

It was a sound strategy Athos decided, they could over power the two Musketeers by sheer number. If it had been before this particular mission Athos would have made the ineffectual last stand and would have gladly gone down fighting. But now a certain bandit had shot into him a different revelation, made him see that he was not as ready to throw away his life as he had believed and Athos had finally, grudgingly, realized that as long as he had the big man's solid presence beside him he would not be allowed to self-destruct without taking at least one other dear life with him.

"You got a plan?" Porthos asked him.

Before Athos could reply, a loud beat of approaching horses cut through the air. Cavalry had finally arrived; later Athos would have to ask the Captain how he managed the quick response but right now he was just glad that he did.

The swarm of riders fanned out into the darkened clearing, pushing forward the ring of men surrounding the two Musketeers. The first thing that Athos noted was the lack of red cloaks and when he saw the dark carriage pulled by four horses he knew that cavalry had indeed arrived but not for them.

The men surrounding them parted as one to let the carriage through; moonlight gleamed over its dark body as it came to a stop in the centre of the circle formed around Athos and Porthos. The coachman stepped down and hurried to open the door for the men inside.

There were three of them, wearing long loose tunics and thick soled boots that thumped audibly as they stepped down from the carriage. What Athos found odd were the silver caps adorning the tip of the index finger of each right hand.

One of the men from the crowd surrounding the Musketeers went up to meet the three new comers. He turned to the white haired one and bowed low.

"Monsieur Marcus!" he said, "Please this way."

"What have we here?" Marcus ignored the man before him and stepped closer to the two Musketeers.

The long tanned face was suddenly too close for comfort and Athos felt the man's gaze rove like an errant spider under his skin, it took every ounce of his famous self-control to not flinch away. A slow smile split like a white gash onto the gaunt face and the dark eyes bore into him with a smugness of one who had found out your deepest secret.

His face swung towards Porthos and with that smug grin still in place, the white haired man touched the silver capped finger tip to the big man's forehead. Porthos dropped to the ground instantly.

* * *

Aramis gasped at the sudden spike of a headache as he guided the women from behind the stables and into the cover of the trees. Queen Anne turned to him in quite inquiry but with a shake of his head he motioned for her to go on.

Athos and Porthos were in trouble, it unraveled to him at some deeper level and he squinted into the darkened clearing. He could just make out the throng of men on foot and horses on the far side and prayed that what he had felt was not the life leaving the two men he was quickly becoming fond of.

The second the women disappeared into the forest he turned to heed the soundless call for help ringing in his ears. It pushed forth the part of him that he subconsciously tamped down on, the part of him that left him scared of himself.

He walked out onto the open clearing, silently ordering the crowd of men to part and stopped only when the tip of his pistol's barrel touched the nape of the neck of the man standing over his two fallen friends.

He couldn't know his eyes were sockets of pitch black but he did know that he could hear the thoughts of the crowd surrounding them, knew that he had instilled fear directly into their minds, had slipped it in smoothly like a sharp blade between the ribs. He could order them to fall on their swords and they would comply without a question and a certain part of him loved the heady intoxication that washed this realization.

A vague throb was settling behind his eyes but he ignored it when from the corner of his gaze he caught the two men standing by the carriage, who stepped towards him with raised hands adorned with something silver. Without turning, he pressed the muzzle of his second pistol into the forehead of the one nearest to him.

"Or I could order one of them to run you through with a sword," he said, distantly realizing the coldness and the power reverberating in his own voice, "They won't hesitate I can assure you."

"Ah! So you can tell your powers don't work on us," the white haired man spoke up though he didn't move.

Aramis didn't spare him a thought, instead he was too focused on the two unconscious Musketeers, feeling infinitely relived at hearing their hearts beat strong and steady.

"Step away from them," He ordered the crowd, then let his eyes roam over the throng of the men around him, "You will not harm them. No one will raise a weapon against them."

Pushing aside the twinge of pain in his breathing, he looked up at the riders gathered at the edge of the ring and ordered them to take the two Musketeers back to the road, out of the range of the watch towers then return back to the clearing.

As he watched them disappear into the forest to carry through his orders, he regarded the three men who felt like blank walls of stone. As sweat broke out on his face, his breathing grew sharp and short but he held on until he heard the riders returning. His tenuous unpracticed hold faltered slightly, there were too many minds here and he was too new to this.

The part of him that was thrilled at the command he still held insisted that these minds were normal, malleable like smooth clay in his invisible grasp. He could easily order them to tear the three watchmen apart.

Aramis abruptly reined his thoughts and reminded himself that just because he could doesn't mean he should. With an effort that left small tremors pulsing in his muscles he drew back from this potent darkness he carried. He wasn't surprised by the tear inducing headache that slammed into him. It was enough to leave him staggering in a daze.

The men around him surged as one; they grabbed him and bound him. The last thought that crossed his mind was that at least his new friends and his Queen were safe.

* * *

In the late hours of darkness, just before dawn, a group of riders thundered down the quite highway. Heading for the Porter's base camp, they slowed to a halt when they saw a white horse at the side of the road with no one in the saddle. Quietly they scanned the forest at the curve of the road, not at all comfortable with the shadows that greeted them.

Pierre brought his horse closer to Treville's.

"Their base is about an hour's ride away," he said.

The Captain of the Musketeers nodded and slipped off his own mount to follow the white horse that had disappeared into the forest; they could not risk being boxed in should the Porters decide to attack them from both sides. He found two more horses tied to a tree and yet there was no rider in sight. As he scanned the foliage with his pistol at the ready, Pierre stepped ahead and examined the animals.

"These are ours," he told Treville, "Their breastplate bear the court's symbols."

"Athos and Porthos," the Captain of the Musketeers closed his eyes in a silent prayer for their safety.

The fact that these horses were tied and not left to wander assured him at least that the two Musketeers hadn't been ambushed. He looked to the animals again when the white horse from before came back to the other two. He reached out without thinking towards the item draped across its saddle. His fingers closed around the worn leather and as he brought it closer he saw that the color had faded even more, but engraved onto the shoulder, the fleur de lis was there.

A hard lump clogged his throat and Treville blinked against the sudden sting in his eyes. He remembered the boy, could see him running off into the storm that night with nothing but the clothes on his back, this long coat - Treville's long coat on his back.

Marsac had been referring to his Rene, he was sure of it now. The wounded Musketeer he had sent back to the outpost with a Red Guard had been mumbling about The Falcon being Aramis. Aramis who was Rene, Rene who was his son; Treville clutched tight the garment and forced himself to calm down.

He could not think like this about this man –he couldn't be more than eighteen his heart pleaded – this man who may very well have lead his men into a trap.

With the mind of the soldier and the duty of a Captain firmly in place Treville ordered the men under his temporary command to resume their journey. It was nearly over half an hour later that they were stopping again; this time at the sight of two men lying on the road.

Treville didn't even register when he got off his horse, he didn't even check the surroundings for any signs of ambush; even in the pale moonlight he could recognize the form of Porthos and Athos, his men, his boys.

Falling to his knees beside them, he pressed two shaky fingers against the vein in Porthos's throat and nearly sagged in relief at finding a strong pulse. When he had assured himself that Athos was alive as well he sat back with a frown at a sudden realization. There was something glaringly different about these two; the Watchman in him could feel their presence. It had never before but now he could tell the there was a Psychic thrum in their consciousness.

Unbidden he remembered what Felipa had told him about those who were born as Knots like Rene. She had said that they wielded power on their own, could it be that they can siphon off this power to others, even non-psychics? Could it be that he had Tethered to these two? Treville was still wondering when a loud groan broke through his thoughts.

Confused blue eyes fluttered open and regarded him blearily and then Athos surged up abruptly.

"Porthos!" he stared wide eyed at the big man lying on his side.

"I'm alright," the other groaned and sat up as well.

They both looked to the other as though assuring the man beside them was unharmed much to the Captain's surprise. Their eyes widened as brown met blue.

"Aramis," they both pushed to their feet together and began checking their weapons as though readying to charge into battle.

"Wait just a minute!" Treville's loud order cut through their preparations.

"Report,"

"It's a long story Captain can we explain after we get Aramis?" Porthos asked.

"And we haven't secured the Queen yet," Athos offered.

"Tell me what happened after Marsac left," Treville ordered, "Short and precise."

As Athos filled him in with to the point facts, Treville found himself intrigued by this Marcus person, he was quickly becoming a common name in his life. By the information that he was receiving it was clear that this was not a 'normal' man. Treville regarded his two best Musketeers, it was clear that Marcus had left both his men shaken and he couldn't help but admire their courage for going back to face him again. Yet the Captain of the Musketeers had a nagging feeling that this entire attack on the Royal Convoy had a purpose even more sinister than politics.

* * *

He burrowed deeper into the cocoon of unconsciousness the second it felt like slipping. He wasn't ready to come back to reality just yet, because it meant that he would have to face the pain both physical and in his mind, it would mean he would have to accept the exhaustion that left him crippling and he would have to acknowledge that he was alone at the mercy of an enemy.

"Aramis?" a tentative voice inquired.

He groaned and rolled onto his side, _please no, dear God no. It can't be; not after all he had been through just to get her out!_

"Aramis I know you're awake,"

He kept his eyes closed and gritted his teeth as he pushed himself to lean on his arms and drag himself until his back hit the wall. It took him long moments to get his wits back under his somewhat shaky control. He blew a slow breath out from his nose and opened his eyes to regard the empty room. Pale moonlight spilled through the small window over his head and Aramis glanced at his side.

Queen Anne had come to sit beside him.

"What are you doing here Your Highness?" he tried his best to not let his weariness show.

"I came to rescue you," was the honest serious reply.

It was getting into a rather circular pattern Aramis decided. He couldn't help it, he laughed. His head thrown back, pressed against the wall as he let the absurdity of it all wash over him. It tapered off into chuckles that he badly disguised as coughs because the Queen was bestowing upon him a stony glare from the corner of her eye.

"I'm sure your Musketeers friends will be rescuing us soon," she nodded more to herself than to him.

"I'm sure," he agreed.

He hoped that they were alive and wondered if their Captain was coming to aid. Wiping a hand over his face he knead the side of his head with the tips of his fingers as the Queen settled more comfortably beside him.

"Why did you come to help us?" the Queen asked as she sagged into the wall a bit, "the first time."

"I was already on the road and I know what the Porters do," he shrugged.

"You're a good man Monsieur Aramis,"

"I'm a highway bandit Your Highness," he said and remembered the other darker abilities he seemed to posses, "I'm far from good. Too far."

He offered her a small smile that did not reach the haunted look in his eyes. He dropped his gaze to his hands in his lap and was deeply grateful when she let go of the matter with a loud huff. The silence grew loud and the Queen by his side shifted where she sat.

"So why were you on the road?" she asked instead, "I mean where were you going? Where were you coming from?"

If only he had a good simple answer of that. A cheerless smile slowly pulled at the corners of his lips and he found his thoughts wandering towards Isabel and the child they had lost. He couldn't identify what exactly was he running from, his past? himself? And he couldn't decide what he was running to, his love? a family?

"I was looking for someone," he said.

As the Queen's inquisitive gaze deepened into a frown, inspiration struck him. Aramis dug into his pockets, hoping against hope that he hadn't lost it in the mess of it all. He pulled out the jewel studded cross bearing pendant and held it out to the girl beside him.

"At least I managed to rescue this," he grinned.

The Queen stared wide eyed at her treasure held in his open palm. With her finger she traced the lines of the pendant almost reverently and when she looked up at him there was a wet sheen over her eyes.

"My father always wore it for protection," she bit her lip to keep it from trembling, "Years before he died he gave it to me on his birthday and said that it would protect me and that protection of my life was the greatest gift he could get."

With hasty wipe across her eyes she sat back against wall and closed her small hand over his bigger one, their fingers entwined with the pendant pressed between their palms. Together they sat quietly for hours, staring ahead and awaiting their fate. Until the sound of battle outside broke the silence.

* * *

 **TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's note: So first I'm sorry this one took so long, my internet connection started acting up and then I'm not sure if it was my laptop or this site but there was something wrong and well here we are. And THANK YOU to all those who reviewed the previous chapter. This one doesn't have much action but I hope its worth the wait.**

* * *

The fight ended as soon as it began, Treville had a feeling that it had something to do with the negotiations that Pierre had mentioned earlier. The bandits began fleeing as soon as the small group charged from the forest and much to Treville's disgust the Red Guards gave only a half hearted chase, turning back from the men they were pursuing far too soon.

Loathed to shoot down men from their backs Treville looked only to wound the fleeing enemy.

"Let it go Captain, we'll go look for the Queen," Pierre spoke from his side.

"Is that the part of the deal you made with them?"

"Cardinal's orders," Pierre shrugged and wiped the sweat from his brow, "We're not to use excessive force. Apparently The Falcon's been doing enough of that."

Before Treville could even think of a reply for that, a man with a shock of vivid red hair emerged from the brightly lit archway of the castle ruins and beckoned him to follow. The Captain of the Musketeers didn't miss the flash of silver on the hand that motioned for him and looked around for his men.

Athos and Porthos were already dismounted; they circled back to him at his signal. Pale light of the not quite dawn cast deep shadows on the worried faces of his men.

"We'll go search the castle," Athos offered as soon as they were within earshot.

"I'll see what I can find out," Treville nodded as he turned to make his way towards the man waiting for him in the doorway. He paused when he felt a hand on his arm and turned to regard Porhos.

"Be careful Captain," he said and wriggled his fingers to show what he was talking about.

"I can handle it," he assured the big man.

The inside of the castle was bright and too hot, the open fire lamps not helping with the heat that stifled the long windowless corridor Treville found himself in. The man he was following never did not bother to turn around nor did he speak a word, the confidence that he would be heeded without question or retaliation set Treville's teeth on edge. He wanted to slam his pistol's butt into the back of the arrogant head just to spite him. He just might have done so in his youth had experience and duty not tempered the anger he felt rising.

He raised an eyebrow when the man before him stopped in front of a door and tilted his head, signaling for the Captain of the Musketeers to proceed without him.

Treville entered the room with a hand on the pommel of his sword.

"Monsieur Treville! I never imagined we will be meeting so soon."

"Captain Treville,"

"Ah yes, that's how your loyal men see you," he nodded, "Athos and Porthos, don't posses much in terms of psychic abilities, in fact they almost felt like fledglings."

"Stay out of their heads," Treville growled.

"Oh we don't get into people's heads, you know that Captain," he raised his hands in a placating gesture, "It's their kind who does that."

"What do you want with the Queen?" Treville cut to the point.

The false geniality was rotting his teeth where he stood yet his brusque words only seemed to expound it when the man before him smiled benignly. He took a seat by the scarred table and offered the Captain a chair, which he ignored.

"Do you have children Captain?"

Treville tapped into his experience at the palace to keep his face blank. It could be a trick question; the Cardinal had implied that this man was thorough in his research. So he stared blandly at the narrow face, framed by white hair.

"I think you know the answer to that Marcus," he said.

"You were married though, some twenty years ago to a beauty of rural Spain. Felipa I'm told." Marcus's dark eyes roamed over his face as though looking for a reaction. When none was forthcoming he nodded to himself, "I'm told she died recently at the hands of her son. Rene d'Herbly, he seemed to have fled after the act."

"I'm only hearing what you believe are facts," Treville could play the fool with the best of them if he wanted to, "I left her years ago, so why are you telling me this?"

"I think I mentioned a son,"

"Never heard of him before," Treville shrugged.

"My sources tell me otherwise, they say you were there when your wife died and her son fled."

"I haven't seen her in years and the last time we talked she never told me about a child." The last part of the confession was at least true.

"I've been told she was a Psychic."

"I'm not aware of that."

"But you are a Watchman."

"Then I guess I would have known since I was the one who married her." Treville said.

Marcus looked surprised for a moment but then a slow smile etched on his old face. He nodded at the Captain as though to imply that he had caught on but Treville kept his face blank, not giving anything away.

"Now why did you orchestrate an attack on Her Highness?" he asked.

"I have a son Captain," Marcus said, "A grandson as well, really bright for a thirteen year old. The boy thinks the world of me; it's the best feeling in the world. But my son, he thinks I'm a monster."

"Are you?"

"I like to think that I do what I'm supposed to do," Marcus shrugged, "And that is to keep the world safe."

"What does this have to do with the Queen?"

"She's a Psychic Captain," Macus sighed, "Not tethered yet to any knot and certainly not polished or powerful. Still in the unawares fledgling state I suppose, but we can't risk it. Think about it Captain, a Psychic so close to the King of France, it's a dangerous thing without her being Spanish on top of it all."

Treville found himself wondering about the 'compelling' that Felipa had told him about. If Her Highness came to understand her abilities she may as well be the one ruling France and if her loyalties lay with Spain it would be a poisonous combination indeed.

"But you have the King protected with the Cardinal." He reasoned.

"The tragedy of my knowledge is that I can see that no matter what we do Watchmen are weaker then Psychics." Marcus folded his hands in his lap but a hard edge set in his jaw line, "We can guard our own minds Captain but we cannot guard another's no matter how much we wish it."

"And you think this is the best way to handle this situation?" Treville shook his head, "You're pushing your country into war."

"We are already at war Captain," the dark eyes glinted, "We wage it every day in the shadows of what people believe to be real."

Treville's hand tightened around the pommel of his sword and a challenge sparked in his blue gaze.

"I cannot allow you to endanger the Queen of France whatever your reasons may be." He said, "My men are searching this place as we speak, Her Highness will soon be safe at the Palace."

"You can't ensure that Captain, that is, if your men are able to find her at all. She is stowed away in a place that even the residents here would not know of." Marcus smiled, "If only there were more of us close to the King, you know to keep an eye on Her Highness, but I got a note from Richelieu that you do not wish to join our Brotherhood."

Treville wanted nothing more than to wipe that smug smile off the man's face, preferably with Marcus's own blood. But giving into his impulses was not what had brought him up to this position. He knew when to fold and he knew which battles to fight. Even if he could somehow get the Queen back to safety there was no guarantee that the Brotherhood would not come after her; next time with more swift and devastating results.

"I accept your offer and you leave her alone?" he asked.

"We'll even let your men be if you would take the responsibility." Marcus dipped his head in a nod.

"Fine then, I'll be a part of your Brotherhood." He said.

"Good, good," Marcus smiled, "Let's see, I think I did keep it with me."

He rummaged in the pockets of his long loose tunic until he pulled out a small knobby object and a scroll. Unfurling it, he spread the blank parchment onto the table and gestured for Treville to come forward with his right hand, the silver tipped finger gleaming in the firelight.

"You need to sign it Captain,"

"It's blank,"

"It will come, don't worry," Marcus assured him

He grasped Treville's hand and the Captain felt a sharp sting in his palm. He glanced down where the silver on the man's finger had cut into his flesh but before he could question it, Marcus had pressed the bloodied silver tip on the top corner of the paper.

The crimson spread onto the parchment shaping into an insignia and smoothly flowed down to form words, curling and stretching into neat writing down to the Captain's own name and the final dot. Marcus rolled it up almost immediately and handed the knobby stump of wood to Treville. It was a stamp bearing the seal exactly like the insignia that had formed onto the scroll.

"You will seal your letters with this every time we correspond," Marcus told him, "And now Jean Armand Treville, I Marcus d'Artagnan welcome you to the Brotherhood of the Watchmen."

"The Queen,"

"You are loyal my friend I'll give you that," Marcus smiled, "Go now, Sebastian would show you the way."

Not wanting to spend a second more in the man's presence he shot out of the room feeling like he had just agreed to something that was out of his comprehension. This time he was almost thankful when the red haired man - Sebastian - turned to walk away without a word.

Treville was lead to a room on the far end of the corridor and once in there the man leading him went over to the corner filled with what once may have been half the roof of the chamber. Nimbly stepping over the debris, Sebastian disappeared behind a tall slab effectively leaning against the wall. He really would have missed it if he had not been shown the way Trevile decided as he followed the man into the hollow behind the fallen piece of roof.

There was a staircase in there and at the end of it, a thick door both locked and bolted. Muffled sound of fists thumping against the wood reached the two as Sebastian produced a key. The second the door swung open Treville found himself at the receiving end of a rather strong right hook.

"What have you done to him? Where is he?" someone shook the Captain before he could regain his balance. He was nearly glad when Sebastian pulled the wild creature off him only to become the next target.

Treville distantly realized loud Spanish ringing in the small hollow of the platform where they stood. He recognized some words as 'self-righteous,' ' pompous' 'murderers' and some that he recognized would have made him blush it he wasn't too focused on bodily lifting up what appeared to be a young girl, off of the rather frightened looking Sebastian.

"Thank you Captain," the man swiped back the red hair falling in his eyes.

The girl in his arms swung her head back quick enough to hit his jaw, hard. The wide blue eyes were red rimmed and the long dark eyelashes wet with recent tears.

"Captain Treville?" she asked, "Athos? Porthos?"

"They are here as well," he set her down once it sank in his mind that this was the Queen of France he was holding on to.

"He said it was you when the fight started," she nodded, "But he took him Captain. Yvon took Aramis."

His first instinct was to rush out in search of his boy, yet between reflex and duty he would always chose the latter. Not really questioning how Her Highness knew about or why she was worried for Aramis; Treville simply nodded and promised her that he would look for the lad once she was safe.

"We don't have the time Captain," she snapped at him with all the nobility she was born with and was halfway down the staircase by the time he rushed after her.

He followed her down and managed to hurriedly squeeze out from behind the tilted slab. He looked to the door to see which way she was heading only to find Her Highness lightly stepping over the debris towards the more than half blocked window of the room.

Cursing under his breath and feeling like he was in an entirely different league of babysitting in contrast with what he went through with the King, Treville dashed after the girl who was making her way toward the long line of black iron cages. They both rounded around the corner of the stables at the same time and stopped dead in their tracks.

A large man who had his back to them was standing over a slumped figure held up only by the fist in the dark hair and from his position Treville could tell that the drawn blade was resting on the forcefully exposed throat of the man on the ground.

He didn't think but simply shot; a single ball of metal went through the man's heart and he crumpled forward. Treville glanced to his side to see the Queen dart ahead even as he lowered his pistol and by the time he reached her in a few quick steps she was sitting in front of the young man with dark hair.

"Are you alright my friend?" she asked in Spanish even as her hand reached for the sluggishly bleeding nick on the man's throat.

"I'm fine My Queen," he replied in Spanish and smiled up at her. With his bound hands he caught her fingers in a reassuring squeeze.

Finding himself rooted to the ground off to their side, Treville shifted from one foot to the other, feeling uncomfortable very unexpectedly so.

"Aramis!" Porthos's shout was enough to break the silent reprieve and the younger man turned to face the two Musketeers with a tired grin.

The Captain of the Musketeers stepped away a bit as did the Queen, when the big man rushed forward and caught the man still kneeling on the ground in a huge, very aptly termed, bear hug. It left the younger man wheezing out a laugh as he was set on his feet and the Captain was surprised to note that even Athos seemed relieved as he swiftly cut through the ropes binding Aramis's hands.

The man rubbed his wrists and smiled in gratitude, but it dropped the second his eyes fell on Treville. The older man saw the warm merriment and relief wash out of the brown eyes as they widened in recognition. The Captain nearly choked on a hard lump that shot up in his throat and stepped closer. His eyes drinking in the changes brought onto the young face; the beard and the mustache made him smile. But the weariness in the young man's eyes and the fear there had the Captain stopping short in his path just as the boy dropped his gaze. The younger man refused to look him in the eye and turned instead to Athos.

"You promised me a duel," he said almost in a whisper.

"I did,"

"You can hardly stand 'Mis" Porthos all but growled.

"I cannot allow you to duel," Treville stepped closer to the two and focused onto Athos when Aramis would not look at him, "You're a Musketeer and you know that dueling is illegal."

"It is the only honorable way for him to win his freedom," Athos reasoned.

"You do not hold the authority over his freedom," Treville snapped and it was the younger man who wouldn't meet his gaze that flinched at his words.

The way his son avoided his gaze had cracked something deep in his chest and the fact that he was actually flinching away from him was like a punch to the already fragile spot. He tried to reason it away that he was after all just a soldier to the lad who probably feared him for his knowledge of the younger man.

Treville forced down the father and let the soldier shine through instead, because the soldier could not turn a blind eye to this; he was the one who brought justice not the one who decided what justice was.

"He helped us save Her Highness," Athos said.

"We will appeal to the King," Treville replied, "We will ask him for mercy, for a lighter sentence."

"I will appeal to His Highness on your behalf." The Queen spoke up.

"You said if I won I will go free," Aramis still looked only to Athos, though his voice remained somewhat muted.

"I owe him this Captain, he saved our lives." Athos said.

He had lost his son to the boy's freedom once; Treville gave a resigned sigh at the thought of going through it again yet he gave a short nod of approval. Because hidden in this resignation was a hope as well, one that the soldier didn't want to recognize because it wished that that the boy would get his freedom and it feared that he just might not when the tremors in the lad's arms became apparent especially when he took the saber that Porthos offered.

* * *

Aramis could not look at the man the Musketeers called their Captain. The man knew him, he knew Rene. This was a man whom he had met for a very short while but in that small amount of time, the soldier had left a rather big impression. Aramis had been surprised by how deeply he had felt the man's disappointment the last time they had parted, he could not bear to receive it again. Because the truth of the matter was that he hadn't come across a man like Treville before he met the soldier. His father had died long before he had learned to speak the title and his uncle had been – Aramis shook his head and brought his thoughts back to the sword Porthos offered him.

He took the blade with a small smile and was surprised to see the mixture of fury and misery echoing from the entire being of the older man. Porthos looked like someone had shot his favorite puppy.

Forcing his legs steady, Aramis faced Athos. The Musketeer's face was blank but the younger man was quickly learning to read his shuttered expressions and found concern behind the veil of aloofness.

"The one who draws first blood wins," Athos said.

Aramis shook his head, he wasn't foolish enough to think that it would be him; with this rule Athos would win before he'd even be able to swing his sword.

"The one disarmed first loses," Aramis said.

Athos nodded, that was all the warning he got before two blades clashed in the light of the coming dawn. He had seen the Musketeer with a blade, even at his best Aramis knew that he would never be able to win this duel and with the fact that the world seemed to spin around him far more than normal he knew it was a lost fight.

But he was not going to give up, there was a lot riding on his freedom. If he was to lose then Athos would have to pry his weapon from his cold dead hands.

Meeting every attack the man threw at him with somewhat drunken movements, Aramis wasn't surprised when he found himself on his back again and again. But he would not relent, the sword in his hand was his freedom, he'd forfeit his life before he let go of it. He lay blinking and winded for a moment after his last fall. Not even registering the tip of the blade hovering over his neck.

"Yield," Athos said.

As an answer, Aramis knocked away the blade with his arm and stood en garde again although his arm shook under the weight of the sword. He knew he was fading fast.

The next rapid attack from Athos had him backtracking, only to stop when his back hit the stable walls. It wasn't that big an impact but on his bruised back it managed to shake the breath out of him. His sword dropped as he bent forward with a gasp, eyes clenched shut to focus on his breathing.

When he looked up Athos was standing over him with both swords in his hands but at rest. Aramis glanced at the group of Red Guards who had gathered to watch the show and found Porthos darting forward to help him ease straight.

For a moment it seemed the three of them were the only people there.

"If the worst comes for me, you must look out for the Queen." Aramis spoke in a murmur between them.

Porthos nodded but Athos glanced back, it seemed he was studying their audience. He didn't turn back but to the two but much to Aramis's surprise he tossed him his sword. The Musketeer looked to Treville as he raised in own sword.

"I'm sorry Captain," he said.

Aramis suddenly found himself dragged forward and back to back with Athos and Porthos. Belatedly he realized they were helping him get his freedom. The three of them stood swords and pistols raised at the Red Guards that surrounded them while the Captain of the Musketeers and the Queen of France looked both shocked and resigned.

Aramis looked from Athos to Porthos, these two men were risking their own lives, their freedom for his. There standing before a range of weapons Aramis was astounded by what these Musketeers offered him without being asked, they acted like they believed that he was worth saving and it humbled him regardless of what he thought of himself.

With grim set to his jaw he stepped away from the Musketeers and hoped that they could read the gratitude in his eyes before he dropped his gaze as he stepped in front of Treville. He offered the Captain his sword as Pierre swooped in with a rope, for these two men Aramis would surrender.

* * *

 **TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: To all who faved and followed this story Thank You! For MusketeerAdventure, Deana and the guests who reviewed, you people are the reason this story haunted me until I sat down and typed out the chapters. Your words are cherished and read more often than its healthy. THANK YOU! This is the last chapter for this story but I have feeling I'll be writing three more parts at least, the plot points aren't refined yet so can't say for sure. But I'll get to it soon, hopefully.**

 **The lyrics at the end of this story are obviously not mine. They belong to Switchfoot, I'm just borrowing them as an inspiration for this story.**

 **This one got out of hand but I hadn't the heart to cut it into two chapters. I hope the length of it doesn't bore you.**

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It was a five day journey back to Paris and Athos observed their prisoner's odd behavior throughout. He teased and talked, was cheeky and smug by turns and sometimes even outright challenged the weary Red Guards to a range of target games. These Porthos thoroughly enjoyed especially when the younger man used hard twigs and sometimes even tiny stones to lob at his captors, each perfect shot added into the mental scoreboard the two seemed to be keeping with a scoring system that they announced at each hit.

A loud clink followed by a whoop of exhilaration cut through the air.

"That's twenty-seven points for me!"

"No way, that was two points."

"Three my dear Porthos, I hit the _lower_ armguard."

The Red Guard who had been the target jerked back his horse looking for retribution but Athos's blade stopped him. The Musketeer didn't see anything wrong in the harmless fun; Athos would not admit that he was being indulgent, he would not admit how much it worried him that this young man might soon be dead just like Thomas.

That was another thing about himself that annoyed Athos on the return journey, he was suddenly started _feeling_ again. He was as worried for Aramis as he might have been if it was Thomas in his place. With the high spirits of their rather brazen prisoner it was easy to overlook the tightly bound hands, the weariness in the drooping shoulders and the fact that the reins of the horse that he rode were in Captain Treville's hands. He also guided Aramis's personal mare, it was the only time Athos had seen the younger man worried and that was when Pierre had insisted to leave behind Risas. That was also the only time Aramis had talked directly to the Captain after his surrender.

Athos wondered what the reason was that made the younger man almost hesitant when it came to their Captain. He would not meet the man's gaze but often Athos would find him studying the Captain when he thought no one was watching.

The five days on the road left the Red Guards cranky and Pierre was gnashing his teeth at being restrained from physically reprimanding the young captive who was quickly becoming a bane to his existence. Because no matter the blatant gulf between Captain of the Musketeers and The Falcon, Treville would not let Aramis be harmed on his watch.

Despite their victory the Musketeers in the group were not happy, they hadn't been able to catch the real culprits behind the attack on Her Highness and it was obvious that the Queen herself lapsed further into contemplative reveries the closer they got to Paris. It was the man quite literally riding to gallows who seemed the most cheerful of the group.

They stopped in the Palace gardens at the crack of dawn, where the Cardinal met them with the Queen's ladies in waiting. They could not present the Queen to His Highness in the ragged state that she was. Athos moved to help Her Highness off her horse but the Queen by then had found her footing on the ground all by herself.

"I'm overjoyed to see you well Your Highness," the Cardinal bowed low, "As the First Minister of France I welcome you home and I can assure you that the culprits behind your ordeal will be apprehended and dealt with swiftly."

"I would need more then assurances Monsieur."

Her words brought a cold lull in the already hot morning. Athos wondered what the Cardinal had been expecting in the new royal. He at least hadn't imagined their new Queen to be anything like she was but he found her strength comforting; although it seemed that the Cardinal wasn't pleased with what he saw.

"We caught the Falcon, Your Eminence." Pierre slid off his horse and motioned for Aramis.

"He surrendered," Treville snapped in his most commanding voice, "to me."

His words implied that it made all the difference in the world and his tone brooked a finality that dared anyone to deny it. The Captain of the Musketeers didn't let go of the reins that held the bandit's mount and with a shake of his head ordered Aramis to stay put. His blue gaze pierced the Cardinal's and Athos felt as though there was an accusation buried in that stare. His suspicions were confirmed when the Cardinal shifted his gaze and offered a barely perceptible nod.

"The bandit will appear before the court tomorrow," he said.

"I would like to see it done today," it was the Queen who spoke up, "Monsieur Aramis had been most helpful in my recent plight and had saved my life more than once. I wish His Highness would consider that in his decision as to his fate."

"I would convey the message Your Highness. In the mean time please enjoy a respite and make use of the refreshments that await you." Cardinal Richelieu bowed again.

"Your concern for my well being is touching Monsieur, I would refresh myself," She offered him a smile that did not reach her eyes, "But then we will see to the matter with in an hour and be done with it. But I would like an audience with my husband before that."

Athos would have smiled if he was the sort; the subtle reminder of her personal relationship with the King was enough justification against the Cardinal's pressure. She would see the matter get done as soon as possible and the First Minister had been politely told that he had no say in the when and how.

"His Highness is eager to meet his wife," the Cardinal said.

"And I wish to meet His Highness as soon as I have been refreshed," she replied with that ingrained composed authority that was her birth right.

It surprised Cardinal Richelieu to no end but the Queen didn't even glance in his direction as she very nearly floated past him with the grace and poise that contrasted highly with her grimy state. The First Minister of France watched her leave then regarded the rest of the group with a quirked brow.

"Secure the prisoner, he has a hearing at court in an hour," he said.

Before they could dismount Aramis turned to Porthos who had become a constant presence by his side, "Take care of Risas for me," he said.

The big man nodded as he helped the bandit off his ride since his bound hands made the task difficult, difficult but not impossible Athos noted, it was almost as if the act was a reassurance. But he could not tell out the two for whose benefit it was.

As Treville led the bandit away behind the Cardinal and Pierre, Athos came to stand beside Porthos.

"It'll be the gallows for him," the big man didn't face his fellow Musketeer, "I'll break him out somehow."

Athos wasn't surprised by the sentiment, especially when his own mind was strategizing and weighing the pros and cons of various escape scenarios.

* * *

His Highness King Louis was excited at being up and about at dawn, which was a first. But then it wasn't everyday one gets to meet his wife for the very first time and after such a long delay. The entire matter of the attack on the Royal Convoy had been terribly irritating and he had been despondent at the thought of losing a wife before he even got to meet her. But the Cardinal had announced that she was safe and eager to meet him and that had dissolved any foul mood that may have been sparked at being woken up so early.

He very nearly skipped about as he was dressed with meticulous care, groomed within the inch of his hair and polished to the last shiny buckle of his shoes. The wide grin of His Highness was infectious and it seemed to set the entire Palace into a happy hum.

Breakfast was a rather hurried affair but His Highness had neither the hunger nor the patience for it. He was told that the Queen awaited him and he hurried off to the chambers they were to share when they wished.

Smoothing his hair and trying to tame his grin His Highness marched through the tall doors hoping to make a good, commanding first impression like the Cardinal had advised him to. He stepped into the room straight backed and expanding his stature as much as he possibly could, but then she turned at the sound of his footsteps.

Her beauty faltered him to a pause. The splendid gown, the precious gems twinkling in her jewelry and the grace of her movements as she bowed to him left His Highness very nearly breathless. And she was his, all his. His Highness grinned wider, she was his.

* * *

He was standing with his feet apart, back straight and his chin out with all the defiance that only a teenager could manage. Treville shook his head at the sight, they were here to plead His Highness for mercy but it seemed that the boy had forgotten that when the hearing had commenced.

"This man is a murderer Your Highness; he has unrepentantly killed innocent people." The Cardinal pointed out.

"You and I have a widely different definition of 'innocent' Monsieur," Aramis smirked.

It fell abruptly when at his side Pierre kicked the back of his legs with a growl and the prisoner fell hard onto his knees. He braced himself onto his bound hands to keep from fully hitting the Palace floor and glared at his tormentor. It only spurred Pierre to grasp him by the hair and jerk his head back.

"You will talk only when spoken to Falcon." He hissed.

From the corner of his eye Treville saw Athos forcefully restrain his fellow Musketeer. Porthos was snarling like a wild beast and looked ready to rip into Pierre, the only thing keeping him in place was Athos's grip on his arm.

Treville hoped fervently that this would be sorted without further bloodshed; he didn't like the calculating gleam in his lieutenant's blue eyes. The Captain of the Musketeers had feeling that whatever the result of this hearing may be, Pierre would still have to watch his back for a long time to come.

His Highness frowned as his attention was pulled away from the beautiful presence at his side and back at the case before him, it was clear that he was not interested in deciding the fate of a bandit at the moment. Treville hoped it would work in their favor.

"Has he confessed to any such activity?" His Highness asked.

While Cardinal shook his head mutely, Captain Treville didn't miss the way Aramis's eyes darted towards the two Musketeers standing away and to the side.

"It had been reported to The Red Guard often Your Highness," the Cardinal explained, "I have the reports, even Captain Treville is aware of the trail of blood this man left on the French highways."

"The accounts are grossly exaggerated Your Highness and seem to speak more of imaginary beings than a human bandit," The Captain of the Musketeers said, "Even if he is guilty of some of the crimes that are in those reports, for which there is no proof, I still plead to you to show mercy Your Highness."

The King's frowned deepened, Treville knew from experience that the royal displeasure did not bode well for all involved. They would have to wrap it up as quickly as possible.

"He saved my life You Highness, surely that may afford him your kindness." The Queen said.

His Highness turned to her with a beaming smile and a ready nod. It made his conscience twinge and Captain Treville had to remind himself that when Marcus had told him about the Queen being a Psychic he had also said that she wasn't aware of her abilities.

"He saved your life my love?"

"More than once Your Highness,"

"He stole from the Crown," the Cardinal reminded His Highness, "he robbed our people, raided the convoys of our dignitaries."

"A sweatbox," the King nodded with an astounded smile as though surprised by his own genius, "We must have one lying about in the dungeons right Cardinal?"

The First Minister nodded with a frown and Treville shifted his weight on his feet, they were both familiar with the royal decisions made on the whim. It could go either way.

"Good," His Highness nodded, "A day, make sure the eyesore isn't out in the gardens, somewhere off to the sight would do. One day in the sweatbox."

Treville sucked in a breath and could feel his Musketeers shifting on their feet. Most of all it was the Queen who paled alarmingly her widened eyes darting from the figure still on his knees though far from slumped and the child King beside her.

"Your Highness?" she seemed to have lost her vocabulary.

Treville couldn't blame her; His Highness had sentenced the cruelest form of execution, because the burning summer that had descended upon their country had already taken lives without the aid of sweatboxes. The King had essentially ordered a slow, agonizing death for Aramis.

Treville's eye stung at the thought, he could not stand by and watch such a fate befall his son, regardless if the lad himself was unaware of their relationship.

"Not the night my love just a day," the King shrugged, "And if he survives I will grant him a commission in the Musketeers regiment. How is that Captain?"

Captain Treville nodded more as a reflex than acknowledgement. A day, not the night, hours, he assured himself and then the lad would be free of all they hold him accountable for. Even get a chance at a better life, a better life under his command. Treville silently absorbed the magnitude of the decision that His Highness seemed to have reached.

"A commission in a regiment? Isn't that too generous a reward Your Highness?" the Cardinal had to ask.

"In fact it will be a gift to you my dear," His Highness beamed at his wife, "How many Musketeers have I Captain Treville? Thirty?"

"Forty men Your Highness,"

"Yes forty," the King nodded, "So we can have one for the Queen too right?"

He didn't wait for a reply, he was the King and he didn't need assurances for the rules he made. He could declare having hair on your head as illegal and that would be the law. Treville unconsciously drew a hand through his own hair and cringed at the thought of falling for such a whim.

"There you have it my dear, should this man survive he would be commissioned as the Queen's Musketeer."

And that was that, His Highness hopped to his feet and offered his wife an arm. The royal couple left the throne room hand in hand, although Treville didn't miss the gaze of the Queen lingering on the bandit who was being pushed to his feet. She looked terrified yet retrained and she looked on until she couldn't without raising questions.

As the Cardinal left as well, Treville turned to Aramis who was being manhandled by a couple of Red Guards; Pierre having already left to put the King's words into action. The younger man managed a rather shaky self-assured grin for the two Musketeers who had inched closer and had even stopped the Red Guards from instantly dragging the lad away. No words were said as Porthos squeezed the slim shoulder in quite support and Athos offered an encouraging nod.

They both stepped back when their Captain drew close. Aramis instantly dropped his gaze and the smile vanished. Late though it dawned on him but he suddenly understood, Treville reached forward and grasped the lad by the back of his neck and offered a comforting squeeze. It hurt to see the surprise in the warm brown eyes that flew to meet his blue ones.

Treville felt like he should have known, should have seen the need to redeem himself that was making Aramis hesitant, the fear of disgust that would not let him meet the eye of the man who had witnessed him taking a life.

And he wanted desperately to tell Aramis who he was, what they were and what the boy meant to him. But he could not, when Aramis would be commissioned under his command Treville would not have the accusation of favoritism hang over all the courage and talent he knew the boy would bring to his regiment.

"You live through this," he said instead, "You survive this and you come out of this stronger."

The warmth in those dark eyes shone through and so did a hint of merriment. He offered the Captain a nod and even a tiny smile. Treville squeezed the back of his neck one more time before he dropped his hand and let the Red Guards take his son away.

* * *

From the foot of the stairs to the far end of the dinner table set in the yard by the support beams of the balcony and then back to the foot of the stairs, then back to the far end of the table. Porthos could not stop, his mind was racing much too fast, his anger raging much too hot and the blasted sun shone like it was going out of fashion.

"You'll set fire to your boots," Athos observed.

Porthos ignored him and resumed his stalking up and down the track he had set for himself. He didn't hear the other man sigh, didn't see him get off of the foot of the stairs where he sat. He only registered the other Musketeer's presence when he came to stand in his path.

"What?" he growled.

The other men of their regiment who had been avoiding them all morning paused to openly stare at the two. None of them were sure exactly what had transpired but rumors as usual were floating in abundance. They all wanted to know the details, wanted to know if these two had actually caught the notorious Falcon and after all it was never a bore to watch these two Musketeers go at each other.

"He'll survive this," Athos spoke quietly.

Porthos felt everything just drain from him. With a nod he followed Athos to the table in the yard and sat down heavily on the bench. The other Musketeer took his seat opposite him and gave him a single nod. Porthos settled; from the corner of his eye he found some of the men openly gaping and soon whispers started up around them. The big man glanced up at the balcony and found their Captain staring off in the distance, his hands clasped around the railing in a white-knuckled grip.

"He'll survive this," Porthos told himself as he leaned forward with his arms on the table.

The two Musketeers sat quietly like they often had on this table but for the first time they sat together, and together they waited and measured the shadows as they stretched inch by inch.

* * *

 _His house burned, the flames stretched up from the rolls of cloth up to the walls and spread like a rippling upside down pool onto the roof. It licked into every corner and burned the very air around him. His mother's weight in his lap was all that was left of the world..._

He glanced down and found his bound hands. They hadn't bothered to free him when they had stuck him in there. Aramis looked up at the slits in the roof from where the light spilled. He squinted against the headache and thoroughly understood how too much light could blind, how too much light could burn.

A shallow stuttered breath reminded him of his earlier injuries but he hadn't the energy to find a comfortable position in the cramped space. Time had slipped out of the grasp of his understanding but he was aware that he had slid down from where he was standing.

It was all in the name of saving his strength he told himself and tried not to think about how hard it was to lift his head from where he had let it drop until his chin rested on his chest.

With an effort he straightened his back into some semblance of ease; his throat was too dry to risk a grunt for the endeavor. Aramis licked his chapped lips, it left a coppery taste of blood on his leather like tongue, it felt too big in his mouth and he remembered the time he was stung by a bee. His mother had been worried then.

 _"Rene? Rene? Look at me boy," a slim hand lightly slapped him and he nodded at his mother who had somehow come to stand beside him._

 _He glanced down at the splintered chair leg in her hand and felt an insane desire to laugh. But then he saw his uncle getting to his feet. The man grinned at them, he still held the dagger._

 _"Come now, isn't that what you hired me to do Felipa?" Remi asked._

 _His mother shoved the chair leg in the hearth and set it ablaze. She waved the flaming end at the man._

 _"Not another word Remi,"_

 _"Why? Afraid that the brat won' be able to take it?" Remi's eyes darted from the mother to the son, "Yes Rene, your mother here hired me to control you. I have given her my word that I will end your pathetic life if it's needed."_

 _"Liar," Rene snarled at him._

He jerked his head up again and slammed it in the metal wall behind him. The pain rattled in his skull, echoed down his spine and vibrated in his numbed feet. It was odd Aramis decided that when his very breath felt like a hot poker to his chest his feet and his hands were disturbingly cool. He tried to rub his hands together and hissed when the rope around his skin dug deeper.

They'd been bound for days now, the rope almost felt like a growth on his skin, odd Aramis told himself as he examined the red trails sticking to his finger, red trails that were warm too. He hated it.

 _Red on Thomas's chest, red on his hands, red on Alain's hands, red streaked carriages and dying red campfires..._

The back of his eyelids shone red. The sharp thin rays of sunlight seared into his eyes and lanced right into his head. The sunlight spilling through the narrow slits of the roof wouldn't let the air in and Aramis was drowning, without a single drop of water nearby, he was drowning in the air that grew thick. Thick and warm it poured into his heaving lungs and he felt them strain in an effort to expel it, to squeeze it all out.

Aramis laughed suddenly, he couldn't believe that he would die by drowning. Stuck in a metal box on hot dry land and he was drowning. Even his raw throat couldn't stop the amusement at the thought to spill out and fill the box. Fill it up until he could drown.

 _He was drowning in the river; the current was too strong as it pulled him out and away, waves crashed against him, water burned in his breath. Until a large dark skinned man grabbed him in a bear hug, held him close and tight, as though he had been scared to lose him. Aramis laughed and told him he'd look good with an eye patch. He turned around and found the cool blue eyes that regarded him, questioned him and judged him. But then they turned on his enemies with quite rage._

" _I'm sorry Captain," they said._

" _You survive this," the Captain ordered._

 _A young girl with a sword to his throat smiled, "I came to rescue you,"_

Aramis gasped awake when he felt the hands on his shirt front. They clawed and pulled before he could ascertain if they were real or just a trick of the heat. He blinked when he couldn't see and his mind belatedly supplied him with the realization that it was night.

Someone was pulling at him and Aramis let them. When the night air touched his skin, caressed down his spine, he would have cried in relief had he the moisture to spare. But the hands were pushing him to his knees and he had no strength left to resist.

" _You survive this,"_

" _I came to rescue you,"_

 _Concerned blue eye and brown..._

 _A blade drawn to protect him and a reassuring squeeze on his shoulder..._

He focused on these snippets chasing each other across his mind and nearly shuddered when something tapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Monsieur Aramis?" he knew that voice.

Aramis looked up and squinted in the light of the too bright and too many lanterns. A young woman in a splendid gown, high raised collar and a thick necklace tightened around her throat regarded him with veiled concern.

His tired mind insisted that something wasn't right about this and he let his gaze roam over the darkness beyond the lanterns. He couldn't see the girl in the grimy pale blue dress, the girl who carried a sword in her hand; he was absolutely sure that he had heard her.

"...the Queen's Musketeer," someone said with another tap on his shoulder.

He shook his head as closed his eyes and his head dropped low on his chest. The words resounded in his mind, registered in his consciousness.

"My Queen," he mumbled.

He let the voices around him lap at his consciousness like monotonous waves onto the shore. He couldn't be bothered with them when he was sure that there were people he needed to see; people who just might be worried about him. He needed to tell them that he had survived.

The light around him began receding and he still sat wondering where he was supposed to go, where could he find these people? If only he remembered the names.

"Athos, Porthos will you?" it was almost as if someone had heard his mental plight. Aramis nodded to himself and repeated the names under his breath, over and over in his mind. He couldn't forget them, shouldn't forget them.

"Athos, Porthos. Athos, Porthos..."

* * *

Porthos clenched his fists at his side until he could feel the nails cutting into the skin of his hand. He focused onto the stinging pressure for the fear that he may just punch His Highness across his royal face.

It was clear to him that Aramis was confused and partway unconscious. It took Athos's grip on his arm to keep him back when the Red Guards had all but dragged him out of the box and didn't even bother to slow his decent as they shoved him to his knees. The bastards still had him bound!

So it was that he was nearly vibrating with an effort to not commit the unforgivable crime of knocking out His Highness as he went on and on about the brilliance of his idea. He laughed and clapped and grinned as Aramis sat quite and still, the only movement his heaving breaths.

Porthos was worried about the silence.

But then Aramis looked up when the Queen called him. Porthos paused in his inner litany of curses and watched with a lump in his throat as his friend's eyes roamed over the Queen and then beyond her as though searching. He didn't register the King commissioning him to the Musketeer regiment.

"...a Musketeer in my regiment," he said, "the Queen's Musketeer."

Porthos wasn't sure if it was a conscious attempt of deference but everyone was surprised when Aramis dropped his head.

"My Queen," the soft words seemed to shake Her Highness to the core. Her suspiciously bright eyes didn't meet any other for the rest of the small private ceremony.

Porthos couldn't wait until the royals would go to the banquet that was starting in honor of the Queen. The Captain was to leave as well but Porthos was infinitely grateful that the man had let him and Athos out of the duties this time.

Captain Treville was worried, Porthos could tell, it was echoing in the short command that he gave them before he followed the royals.

But when the two Musketeers moved towards their new comrade they stopped in surprise as the man abruptly surged to his feet. Mumbling to himself, Aramis staggered back from them. Dark, glazed over eyes narrowed dangerously as Porthos advanced with his hands raised to show he meant no harm.

"I don't think he's all there," he whispered to Athos.

"We need him to let us help him,"

But the more they advanced the further back their comrade went. He staggered back, tied hands raised as though to push them away. Porthos was afraid that he would trip and crack his head on something and then where'll that leave them?

"Ath's, P'rths." His mutterings turned audible, "Ath's,P'rths."

It brought them to an abrupt halt. The two Musketeers looked to each other in surprise but quickly averted their eyes lest the other should see the wet sheen there.

"Aramis?" Athos called loudly.

The confused gaze focused in on him and a frown appeared on his face. The younger man stumbled forward, his eyes not leaving the Musketeer's face.

"A'ths?" he asked as he took another step and then fell forward.

Very much aware of the other man's aversion to touch Porthos was momentarily scared that he would step aside from the younger man just as he had with Marsac. But he wasn't that much surprised when Athos stepped forwards instead and caught Aramis.

With an arm around his shoulders and another around his waist, the Musketeer eased their friend gently to the ground.

* * *

Athos braced an arm under Aramis' head as his free hand flew to the pulse point in his neck; it was too fast. He took the waterskin that appeared in his line of sight and adjusted his hold as he raised the younger man's head resting in the curve of his arm.

He pressed the mouth of the waterskin to the torn, parched lips and trickled water into the pliant mouth. It dribbled off the corners and down the bearded chin until it soaked Athos's shirt.

"He isn't drinking," Porthos growled, "Why isn't he drinking it?"

"He will," Athos told him as he shifted and pulled Aramis up until his head came to rest against Athos's shoulder effectively freeing both his hands. Porthos helped straightened the limbs of the unconscious man then pushed to his feet.

"I'll get our horses." He said.

Athos nodded but didn't look away from the task at hand. This time when he tipped the waterskin against Aramis's lips he massaged the throat with his other hand and nearly sagged in relief when the first mouthful went through.

The second and third went the same way until Aramis coughed harshly, the bloodied bound hands clutched the front of Athos's shirt and the Musketeer paused in his actions. The sudden crushing weight of being responsible for another life nearly took his breath away. He had experienced it once when he had held Thomas for the first time and after that spectacular failure he never wanted the responsibility again.

But the younger man in his arms seemed to have a different idea as he groaned and tried to burry deeper into Athos's shoulder.

Resigned to his fate, Athos again offered water to the unconscious man. Aramis drank greedily, as though suddenly understanding the purpose of the action. He moaned when the relief was pulled away.

"Choking to death would be rather counterproductive to our efforts don't you think?" Athos asked.

When silence resumed, he repeated his ministrations; small measured mouthfuls with frequent pauses. Athos had a feeling that was why Aramis had made that deal with him, to punctuate the water he drank with questions and answers.

It was the best way to stave off vomiting, the surgeon had told them. Their Captain hadn't spent his morning idle, he had consulted the surgeon the Musketeers called when the need arose and the man had guided them about what to do for the one suffering from heat. As it was, the water that he made sure Aramis drank was mixed with both salt and sugar.

Athos looked up when Porthos returned with their horses. He helped the man adjust Aramis sideways in front of his saddle. When the other Musketeer was sure that he had a good grip on their precious cargo Athos stepped back.

He didn't mind when Porthos rode off without waiting and was almost glad to have a second to himself as he mounted his horse. He wasn't sure what to do with the worry and fear and concern that was pouring forth from a hollow in his chest that he had assumed cold and dead for the last two years.

* * *

Charon had always said that his heart would lead him to his death and Porthos had simply shrugged while he cuddled with the latest stray animal he had rescued, sharing his warmth with the creature since it was the only thing he had to offer. He had argued that everyone should have a home and each time he had become the laughing stock of the Court.

As he set Aramis down onto one of the beds in the empty infirmary that same waif of the Court poked its head out the hole it kept itself buried in. The easy friendship had flowed the moment this man had flopped out a river and Porthos soon found the searching waif in his heart settle.

With a frustrated snarl he began hacking away the bindings around the younger man's bloodied wrists, his actions starkly gentle in contrast with the anger radiating from him. He managed to pry loose the last of the rope from the congealed mess in the skin where it had dug in halfway. He threw it away with vengeance, barely missing Athos as he strode in.

"Shouldn't have bound him on the trip back." He growled.

"We weren't exactly in a position to make demands," Athos reminded him, "not after we tried to help him go free."

Porthos grunted as his fellow Musketeer poured the mixture they had prepared before they had left and moved towards Aramis with the bowl in hand. As Athos hefted up the younger man to get him to drink, Porthos went about getting the water to cool him down.

Once they were satisfied that they couldn't force the unconscious man to drink anymore, between the two of them they managed to wrestle Aramis's limp arms out of his shirt and lay him down on his side.

Athos's brows shot up to his hairline and Porthos cursed vehemently at the sight that greeted them. Aramis's entire back was various shades of green and yellow from healing bruises, bruises that were still purplish-blue in many spots.

Athos's hand drifted into Aramis's dark wavy hair and his own head dipped with his eyes closed.

"You should have said something my friend," he whispered.

"Oh he'll be sayin' something alright!" Porthos stalked off down the infirmary gathering pillows as he went, "The stubborn arse will have a lot of explainin' to do don't you worry!"

He couldn't believe that this _whelp_ had ridden like this, ridden into battle like this and then got stuck in that over grown oven like _this_. Porthos was fuming as he dumped the pillows on his friend's bed and growled all the way as he and Athos settled the younger man in what they hoped was a comfortable position.

Porthos hooked a chair with his boot and slid it closer to the bed. He sat down with a large bowl of tepid water between his feet and an army of rags. He wiped the cool cloth over the pale face with a gentleness that belied his scowl and from the corner of his eye he saw Athos getting ready to clean the wounded wrists.

Porthos re-wetted the rag and wiped it across his friend's chest, hating the sickly yellow tinged with green that curled from around his back.

"I thought dealing with one suicidal arse was enough." He growled.

"I don't think he's suicidal," Athos didn't look up from where he was carefully picking out the splinters of rope from the gash, "reckless is the word you're looking for."

"Still one pair eyes on him don't seem enough."

"Then I guess it's good that he'll be having two." Athos said.

Porthos glanced at the man who met his gaze squarely before they both resumed their work. It dawned on him that he wasn't the only one who had found a reason to stay; he wasn't alone in finding a home. He looked back down at the slack face that was oblivious of the fact that he had just snagged close two notoriously solitary souls of the regiment.

It was hours later, deep into the night when they had just resumed their work after forcing some more water into their patient when Aramis showed any sign of waking. He shivered slightly as the night air drifted in from the open window and alighted on his skin.

Porthos watched closely as the slow restlessness finally gave way to fluttering eyelids. He paused in his ministrations and waited for the eyes that blinked once, twice and then remained opened at half mast.

"Hey there," he grinned as recognition sparked in the gaze that beheld him.

"P'rths," Aramis croaked and smiled, "A'ths?"

Porthos glanced at the other Musketeer who seemed to be staring intently at Aramis's fingers that have curled around Athos's thumb while the man had been wrapping the damaged wrists. He cleared his throat and the blue eyes caught his with a start.

"Still here," Athos said.

Aramis rolled his head towards his voice and presented him with a rather dopey grin. He swallowed thickly and slowly blinked to keep his eyes open.

"The Queen?" he asked.

"She's safe," Athos said.

"And you got to become the only Queen's Musketeer," Porthos teased, "We'll keep your secret safe, don't worry."

Aramis's smile grew at his words; it was only dimmed because of his exhaustion.

"Mean's I'm special," he pushed past his sore throat.

"Dream on," Porthos rolled his eyes.

He wiped the cool rag across his friend's forehead and Aramis hummed in response. He was asleep before Porthos could re-wet the cloth.

* * *

Dawn broke with the first summer shower of that year. After long weeks of baking heat relief poured in the streets of Paris. Aramis stood in the empty yard of the garrison with his face raised to the sky. He let the rain wash away the grime from the last few days and let the tension seep out of his shoulders. He had awoken to find Porthos at his side, bent and sprawled half on his bed with Athos on his other side, his feet propped up at the foot of the bed.

He had always made friends easily, but this level of concern left him shocked and grinning. Wiping the strands of wet hair off his face he slowly moved to the stables.

Risas greeted him with an excited snort.

He scratched the nose that nuzzled his shoulder and sniffed his wet hair. Aramis chuckled.

"Good to you see too," he stroked the mare's neck, "Thought I won't get another chance."

His horse pawed the ground before drawing back a little and nearly hit him in the face with the half filled sack of feed. Ducking to avoid the blow he stared for a second at the sack now dropped at his feet.

"No thank you, I'd rather not," he grinned and placed the feed back in stall.

"Porthos was insistent that she had all the food she could eat," a voice spoke from behind him.

Aramis didn't have to turn to know it was the Captain. This time he greeted Treville with a smile. The man tossed him something that the younger man caught on reflex. He looked down his hand to find an apple the size of his fist.

Grinning widely Aramis bit into it.

"If she gets spoilt like this I'm sticking her on Porthos," he said.

"She looks at home," The Captain pushed away from the doorway he was leaning against.

Aramis shrugged as he finished half the fruit not even realizing he was hungry until he had eaten. Wiping a hand on his breaches he gave half the apple to his horse.

"For now she is," he said.

"Restless spirit this one?"

"She needs her freedom and a good run once in a while,"

Captain Treville came to stand before him. His piercing blue eyes studied his face with something almost like longing. Aramis found his brows arching in surprise.

"I think we can manage that," the Captain said.

He held out something to Aramis and it took long minutes for the younger man to realize that it was a pauldron. Hesitantly he reached out and touched the hard leather before gathering his courage to actually grab it.

"You earned it," the Captain told him earnestly before a teasing smile flashed on his face, "Although let's keep the Queen's Musketeer part to ourselves alright?"

Aramis grinned and dipped his head, not wanting the older man to see the suspicious brightness in his eyes. He had wanted to be a soldier the moment his mother told him about his father, he never got to know his name, his title or his family, he was only told that he was a soldier and Aramis had wanted to be one too in all his toddler wisdom.

He was sure that this future was no longer for him but there he was now, commissioned by the King himself.

"Thank you," he said, "I'd be honored to serve under your command."

In fact he would be more than honored, he would be overjoyed. In the years that he had spent on the road, digging himself a hole with his life as an outlaw he had always imagined what Treville would say to him about his actions. This was a man who possessed the qualities that he attributed to the nameless, faceless thoughts of his father.

He was pulled from his thoughts when a strong hand gripped his shoulder.

"For what it's worth, I'm proud of you." And Treville looked it too; his eyes were genuinely brimming with pleasure.

"It's worth everything Captain," he told the man in a moment of rare honesty.

The Captain smiled, patted his shoulder and marched out of the stables. If there was a telling moisture in his eyes Aramis didn't call him out on it and was glad that the man afforded him the same.

He went out to the yard and sat down at the table set to the side. He stared at the pauldron in his hands and watched the falling rain trace the fleur-de-lis carved in it. Later he would have to ask about his coat and his weapons, but for that moment he was satisfied.

He had no idea how long he sat there staring at the new piece of leather in his hands. He only looked up when he heard the clink of glasses against wood.

Porthos pulled him up to his feet as Athos set the three glasses and the bottle he carried onto the table. The big man adjusted and tied the pauldron onto his shoulder while Athos poured the drinks.

He was just recovering from acute lack of water and he hadn't had proper food in a while, but Aramis couldn't care less. While the rest of the garrison still slept, the three of them stood in the falling rain and raised their glasses.

Each one of them was a little lost, a little broken and a little guilty. But together they had a chance.

* * *

 _ **Maybe redemption has stories to tell  
Maybe forgiveness is right where you fell  
Where can you run to escape from yourself?  
Where you gonna go?  
Where you gonna go?  
Salvation is here...**_ _ **\- 'Dare you to move' by Switchfoot**_


End file.
